KNlTTea-) 
IN-THe-S^N 


OCTAVe-THANieT 


1 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

LIBRARY 


m 


THE  WILMER  COLLECTION 
OF  CIVIL  WAR  NOVELS 
PRESENTED  BY 

RICHARD  H.  WILMER,  JR. 


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KNITTERS    IN   THE    SUN 


BY 


OCTAVE  THANET 


O,  fellow,  come,  the  song  we  had  last  night.  — 

Mark  it,  Cesario ;  it  is  old  and  plain ; 

The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun. 

And  the  free  maids  tl»at  weave  their  thread  with  bones, 

Do  use  to  chant  it. 

Twelfth  Night,  Act  II.,  Scene  4. 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

1887 


Copyright,  1887, 
Br  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  00- 

AU  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  U.  0.  Houghton  &  Co. 


o 


TO    MY   MOTHER. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2009  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/knittersinsunOOthan 


CONTENTS. 


• 

PAGE 

The  Ogre  of  Ha  Ha  Bay 1 

The  Bishop's  Vagabond 50 

Mrs.  Finlat's  Elizabethan  Chair    ....  97 

Father  Quinnailon' s  Convert        ....  133 

A  Communist's  Wife 173 

Schopenhauer  on  Lake  Pepin      ....  201 
"  Ma'  Bowlin' "  (from  Harper's  TFee%)      .         .         .237 

Half  a  Curse   .        .        • 269 

Whitsun  Harp,  Regulator 301 


KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 


THE   OGRE   OF   HA  HA  BAY. 

The  Saguenay  steamboat  reaches  Ha  Ha 
Bay  in  the  early  morning.  It  was  just  three 
o'clock  on  a  July  morning,  when  Susan  and  I 
took  our  first  look  at  the  bay.  I  had  been 
trying  to  marry  Susan  for  ten  years,  and  we 
went  up  the  Saguenay  on  our  wedding  journey. 
I  have  but  to  shut  my  eyes  to  see  Ha  Ha  Bay 
now.  Early  as  the  hour  was,  the  pale  light 
of  that  high  latitude  brought  out  the  scene 
with  something  the  same  quality  of  tone  as  an 
etching :  the  desolate  cliffs  guarding  the  en- 
trance to  the  Saguenay ;  the  hills  lower,  and 
green  with  oats  and  barley  about  the  placid 
pool  where  the  mysterious  river  widens  into 
the  bay;  the  two  quaint  villages  facing  each 
other  across  the  water,  with  their  half  foreign 
picturesqueness  of  stone  walls  and  steep  red 
roofs ;  a  pier  like  a  long,  black  arm  thrust  forth 
from  St.  Alphonse;   a   huge    sawmill   over  at 


2  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Grand  Bale;  and  four  full-rigged  ships  at 
anchor  below  the  mill.  The  tide  was  out  in 
the  flats,  and  the  smell  of  salt  water  was  in 
the  air. 

Behind  St.  Alphonse  some  freak  of  nature 
has  heaped  a  mass  of  granite  rocks,  then,  re- 
penting, tried  to  hide  them  with  a  frugal  ver- 
dure of  grass  and  stunted  pines.     The  hotel  is 
built  on   the   rocks.     Broad    piazzas   made   it 
imposing,    and   whitewash,    conspicuous.     Not 
only  has  St.  Alphonse  the  hotel  of  the  bay,  it 
is  also  the    steamboat    landing.     Perhaps   the 
boat's  coming  but  four  times  a  week,  and  being 
the  sole  means  of  intercourse,  outside  of  horse- 
flesh, between   the  village  and  the   world,   ac- 
counts for  the  presence  of  all  the  inhabitants 
on  the  pier.     Certainly,  the  traffic  of  the  region 
in  wood  and  blueberries   could  scarcely  bring 
such  numbers  out  of  their  beds  at  three  o'clock 
in  the  morning.     The  wood  and  the  blueberry 
boxes —  looking  exactly  like  wee  coffins  —  were 
piled  on  either  side.     One  man,  with  a  wheel- 
barrow, was  hauling  the  wood  into  the  boat's 
hold,  superintended  by  three  officers,  all  talk- 
ing  at   once.     Half   a   dozen,  having  nothing 
better    than    their    arms,    were   carrying   the 
blueberries    on    board.      At    the   same   time, 
sacks  of  flour  and  barrels   and  boxes  of  mer- 
chandise kept  emerging  from  below,  the  own- 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA   BAY.  3 

ers  of  which  helped  the  confusion  by  running 
about  after  their  goods,  while  the  unwieldy- 
vehicles  of  the  region,  the  voitures  a  la  planche, 
were  recklessly  plunging,  backing,  and  turning 
through  the  crowd  amid  a  mighty  clamor  of 
French  patois.  One  of  the  horses  fixed  my 
attention.  He  was  a  splendid  creature,  a  big 
gray,  with  the  great  curved  neck  and  powerful 
flanks  of  a  charger  on  a  Greek  frieze.  The 
muscles  stood  out  like  whipcord,  as  he  reared 
and  pawed  in  the  air.  His  driver,  a  slender 
young  habitant,  took  his  antics  very  coolly, 
merely  saying  at  intervals,  in  a  conversational 
tone,  "  Sois  sage,  Bac,"  as  though  to  an  unruly 
baby. 

"  I  should  like  to  drive  after  that  horse," 
said  my  wife.  Her  voice  is  softer  than  a  flute, 
and  she  is  slender  and  graceful,  with  an  appeal- 
ing look  in  her  hazel  eyes,  and  the  sweetest 
smile  in  the  world ;  but  I  have  never  met  a 
woman  so  fond  of  risking  her  neck.  Before  I 
knew  what  was  happening  she  had  called, 
"  Venez  ici,  cocher  !  "  and  the  gray  brute  was 
kicking  at  my  elbow.  Naturally,  nothing  re- 
mained but  to  climb  into  the  voiture  a  la 
planche.  These  ''  carriages  on  a  plank "  are 
simply  "buckboard  wagons"  with  two  seats, 
the  further  one  of  which  is  protected  by  a  hood 
and    a   leather    apron.     Susan    was    charmed. 


4  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  He  has  spirit,  your  horse,"  said  she  in  French. 
"  Oway,    Madame,"    said   the   driver,    politely 
turning  in  his  seat.     "  Oway,"  I  had  already 
discovered,    is     Canadian     French   for    "  Oui." 
The    driver   was   young.     He  was    clad   in    a 
decent  coarse  suit  of  gray,  and  wore  the  soft 
felt   hat  and  curious  boots  of  undyed  leather, 
tied  with  a  thong,  which  every  habitant  wears. 
His   features   were   of    the    delicate    habitant 
type;  but  his  fair  skin,  blue  eyes,  and  reddish 
yellow  hair  hinted  a  mixed  race.     He  was  not 
tall,  and  was  slightly  round-shouldered.     The 
only  thing  noticeable  in  his  appearance  was  an 
air  of  deep  dejection,  not  lightened  by  so  much 
as  a  smile  of  courtesy.     He  spoke  no  English, 
—  almost    no   one    speaks    English   in   the  St. 
John  country,  —  but  though   dejected  he   was 
not  reticent,  and  we  had  his  whole  history  be- 
fore we  were  well  into  the  village.     His  name 
was  Isadore  Clovis.     He   lived  in   the  village 
with  his   uncle,  Xavier   Tremblay.     That  was 
his   uncle's   house  —  pointing  to  a  cottage  of 
logs  covered  with  birch  bark,  which  stood  close 
to  a  substantial  stone  house.     He,  himself,  was 
not  married,  he   never   should  be.     His  father 
and'  mother  had  been  long  dead.     He  was  the 
youngest  of  a  large  family ;  the  habitants  had 
large  families,  "  Oway,  M'sieu'."     "  And  that 
of  my  mother  was  of  the  largest,"  said  he;  "  the 


o 


TEE   OGRE  OF  HA  HA  BAY.  5 

good  God  sent  her  twenty-six.  But  twelve, 
fifteen,  that  is  common." 

"And  did  they  all  live  ?  "  I  asked,  while  Su- 
san remarked  in  English  that  she  had  never 
heard  of  anything  so  horrible. 

"  Mais,  non,  M'sieu',"  said  Isadore,  "  all  are 
dead  but  six ;  they  live  in  Chicontimi,  nme 
miles  from  here.  I  live  here,  I  with  my  uncle. 
Regard  my  uncle,  Madame,  M'sieu' !  " 

His  finger  indicated  the  roof  of  the  stone 
house.  Peering  over  the  ridgepole  was  a  bushy 
white  head,  set  with  no  visible  neck  upon  a  pair 
of  very  broad  shoulders.  Hair  standing  out  in 
spikes  all  over,  a  stubbly  gray  beard,  and  pro- 
digious eyebrows  imparted  an  aspect  of  gro- 
tesque ferocity  to  features  forbidding  enough 
of  themselves,  weatherbeaten,  rugged,  scored  by 
innumerable  lines  and  dents.  The  attire  of 
this  extraordinary  bust  was  a  plaided  red  flan- 
nel shirt,  torn  at  the  throat,  and  thus  display- 
ing a  hairy  chest.  Altogether,  he  might  have 
given  an  orang-outang  the  odds  for  ugliness. 

"  He  owns  both  houses,"  said  Isadore,  ''  he  is 
rich  ;  he  has  many  farms  and  a  fromagerie  and 

"He  is  fortunate,"  said  Susan,  who  likes  to 
be  pleasant  with  people,  and  to  praise  their  be- 
longings; "it  is  a  good  house,  a  comfortable 
house.     Does  he  live  there  ?  " 

Isadore  threw  a  lustreless  eye  over  the  house. 


6  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

saying  slowly,  "No  one  lives  there,  Madame, 
no  one  has  ever  lived  there ;  it  is  because  of 
his  vow." 

"His  vow?" 

"  Oway,  Madame.  He  made  a  vow  before 
M.  Pingat,  M.  le  notaire,  M.  Rideau,  M.  Ver- 
net,  those,  that  he  would  never  go  into  his 
new  house  until  be  should  marry  a  maiden  of 
twenty.  It  was  twenty-five  years  ago,  but  he 
has  never  gone  into  the  house  since." 

"  How  old  is  he  ?  " 

"  He  is  eighty  years  old,  Madame  ;  he  is  a 
very  strong  man.  Every  day  he  climbs  the 
roof,  so." 

"Dear  me,"  cried  Susan,  "this  is  most  inter- 
esting! he  has  never  married,  then?" 

"No,  Madame;  once  be  was  affianced  to  a 
maiden  of  twenty,  she  had  but  one  eye  ;  but 
she  fell  in  the  river  and  was  drowned." 

"But  in  his  youth?" 

"  Once  he  was  afl&anced,  Madame,"  said  Isa- 
dore ;  "he  was  then  fifty-five,  and  not  long  come 
from  Quebec.  Madame  does  not  know  the 
widow  Guion  ;  she  is  still  handsome;  but  then, 
when  she  was  twent}^,  there  was  no  one  in  the 
parish  to  compare  with  her.  My  uncle  would 
marry  her,  and  the  affair  was  arranged,  and  my 
uncle  had  built  the  house  ;  it  was  nearly  fin- 
ished, when,  behold,  she  will  not  marry  my  un- 
cle, she  will  marry  Pierre  Guion.     Then  all  the 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  7 

world  made  jests  about  my  uncle,  who,  as  one 
can  see,  is  not  handsome.  And  it  was  at  M. 
Francois  Pouliot's  house  that  they  were  laugh- 
ing, and  saying  that  my  uncle  would  frighten 
any  woman  away,  he  was  so  ugly,  and  my  uncle 
overheard  it,  passing  by,  and  came  in,  and 
swore  an  oath  before  them  all,  that  he  would 
never  go  into  his  new  house  until  he  should 
marry  a  maiden  of  twenty.  '  I  can  get  the  best 
of  them  to  marry  me,  for  as  ugly  as  I  am,'  said 
he.     But  it  was  twenty-five  years  first." 

"  Has  he  succeeded,  then  ?  "  Isadore,  lean- 
ing forward,  gathered  up  the  reins. 

*'  Oway,  Madame,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone, 
*'  he  has  succeeded.  Next  month  he  will  marry 
a  maiden  of  twenty,  and  move  into  his  new 
house."  By  force  of  habit  Isadore  called  the 
twenty-five  year  old  house  "the  new  house;  " 
doubtless  it  had  been  "the  old  house  "  and  "the 
new  house  "  to  him  from  childhood.  "  He  left 
the  house  just  as  it  was,"  said  Isadore,  "  the 
wood  and  shavings  are  all  scattered  about  the 
floors,  where  the  carpenters  left  them.  He  had 
the  carpenters  board  up  the  windows,  that  was 
all.     Bac,  en  avant !  " 

We  had  turned  and  were  ascending  a  hill. 
Half-way  up  Isadore  stopped  to  point  again. 
"  See,  Madame,  the  cottage  of  the  widow 
GuioD."     It  was  a  mere  morsel  of  a  house,  the 


8  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

unpainted  boards  of  wbicli  were  made  a  better 
protection  against  the  weather  by  a  covering 
of  birch  bark.  In  the  little  yard  the  peas  were 
in  flower,  and  a  few  hollyhocks  reared  their 
heads  above  the  beet  leaves  and  lettuce.  A 
barefooted  man  was  raking  coals  out  of  the 
open-air  oven  which  stood  to  one  side  of  a  pile 
of  brush.  "  C'est  le  beau-frere  de  Madame," 
said  Isadore,  "  c'est  un  fou,  mais  bon  naturel, 
pas  me  chant.  From  here,  Madame  can  see  the 
hotel  plainly." 

We  looked,  not  at  the  hotel,  but  at  the  road. 
Could  that  infatuated  Canadian  mean  to  drive 
up  a  sheer  rock,  slippery  with  mud,  wider  but 
hardly  better  than  a  goat  path  ? 

"Attendez,"  said  I,  "do  you  mean  to  take 
us  up  that  way,  that?  " 

"Oway,  M'sieu',''  replied  Isadore,  tranquilly, 
"  without  doubt.  Bac  is  accustomed  to  it.  Be- 
hold !  Bac,  en  avant ! "  With  the  word,  he 
leaped  lightly  over  the  shafts,  and  Bac  and  he 
went  up  the  hill  on  a  run.  It  is  the  pace  of 
the  country  ;  up  hill  and  down,  they  make  their 
horses  gallop  at  the  top  of  tbeir  speed.  I  don't 
know  why;  I  suppose  they  like  it.  At  any 
rate,  Susan  did  ;  she  was  enchanted. 

"Wasn't  it  lovely,  Maurice?"  she  cried,  as 
Isadore  pulled  Bac  up  before  the  hotel  piazzas ; 
"  do  give  the  man  something  handsome." 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA   BAY.  9 

I  gave  him  fifty  cents,  which  he  said  was 
more  than  he  deserved ;  and  we  both  watched 
him  rattle  down  the  hill  at  a  rate  which  threat- 
ened to  break  every  bone  in  his  body.  Then, 
having  seen  him  emerge  unshattered,  we  entered 
the  hotel.  There  are  no  such  inns  in  the 
States.  Nothing  could  be  more  primitive  than 
the  house  and  its  furnishing.  The  walls  were 
unplastered,  the  woodwork  unpainted;  the 
women  of  the  village  had  spun,  woven,  and 
dyed  the  strips  of  gay  carpet  on  the  pine  floors. 
We  had  tallow  candles  in  our  bedrooms,  a 
candle  to  a  room.  If  we  wanted  a  maid  we 
went  out  into  the  hall  and  called  her.  A  bath 
was  a  perilous  luxury,  the  one  bath  tub  of  the 
house  being  too  large  for  the  doors,  so  that 
it  must  be  emptied  before  it  could  be  tilted  on 
one  side  and  trundled  out  of  the  room,  which 
operation  usually  ended  in  flooding  both  the 
bather's  chamber  and  the  room  below,  not 
counting  a  few  stray  rivulets  likely  to  meander 
into  the  hall.  Yet,  I  have  been  less  comfort- 
able in  houses  with  grand  names.  Everything 
was  scrupulously  clean ;  Madame  gave  us  a 
capital  dinner  and  Monsieur  kept  most  excellent 
wines ;  nor  is  it  everywhere  that  one  can  eat 
salmon  of  his  own  catching.  Moreover,  it  is 
pleasant  to  live  among  a  people  so  simple, 
kindlv,  and  cheerful  as  the  French  Canadians. 


10  KNITTERS  IN  THE   SUN. 

All  the  ri^ror  of  a  barsh  climate  and  a  hard  life 
cannot  quench  their  amiable  vivacity  or  that 
engaging  politeness  which  flings  a  sort  of 
Southern  grace  over  their  bare  Northern  homes. 
We  grew  fond  of  the  viUagers.  To  them  the 
hotel  was  the  centre  of  festivity  ;  were  there 
not  a  bowling  alley,  and  a  billiard  room,  and  in 
the  parlor  a  'piano  ?  Nightly  the  village  mag- 
nates would  assemble  in  the  alley  and  bowl 
with  tremendous  energy  and  both  hands.  We 
came  to  know  them  all,  the  doctor,  the  notary, 
the  rich  fur  merchant,  the  various  shopkeepers 
and  farmers. 

Of  them  all  none  interested  us  more  than  the 
widow  Guion  and  her  daughter.  The  widow 
was  a  tall  woman,  whose  figure  had  been 
moulded  on  such  fine  lines  that  a  life  of  coarse 
toil  had  not  been  able  to  spoil  them.  Trouble 
had  bleached  her  thick  hair  and  wrinkled  her 
face,  and  the  weather  had  browned  her  skin, 
but  she  was  as  straight  as  an  arrow  and  still 
had  splendid  eyes  and  a  profile  worth  drawing. 
We  often  saw  her  in  her  garden  working  like  a 
man.  Indoors,  she  would  wash  her  hands,  tie  a 
clean  apron  about  her  waist,  and  sing  over  her 
spinning.  The  singing  was  for  the  fool.  She 
was  very  kind  to  him  and  devoted  to  her 
dauo'hter.  She  was  also  neat,  honest,  and 
industrious;    but  she  was  not  popular    in    the 


THE  OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  11 

village;  they  said  that  she  had  an  imperious 
temper  and  was  unsocial.  Melanie,  the  daugh- 
ter, was  one  of  the  maids  at  the  hotel,  a 
tall,  handsome,  black-haired,  fair-skinned  girl, 
who  revived  the  traditions  of  her  mother's 
beauty.  One  day  something  occurred  to  make 
us  notice  Melanie.  We  were  sitting  on  the 
rocks  overhanging  the  village.  It  was  that 
most  peaceful  hour  of  the  day,  the  hour  before 
sunset.  The  west  was  in  a  glow  that  turned 
the  tin  spire  of  the  little  church  into  silver ;  the 
mountains  cast  purple  shadows  over  the  bay  ; 
and  the  water  was  a  steel  mirror  with  rippling 
splashes  of  shade.  We  could  hear  the  lowing 
of  the  cows  returning  homeward,  and  the  faint 
tinkle  of  bells,  and  the  voices  of  mothers  call- 
ing their  children.  "  How  peaceful  it  is,"  said 
Susan  softly,  "and  they  seem  so  pastoral  and 
childlike,  like  people  in  poems.  One  can  hardly 
imagine  any  one's  being  very  unhappy  here." 

Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  our  own  past; 
certainly  we  had  been  miserable  enough,  before 
we  drifted  into  this  calm  harbor.  Just  then  a 
man  and  woman,  coming  along  the  path  be- 
neath, halted,  out  of  sight,  but  not  out  of  hear- 
ing. The  man  was  speaking :  "  No,  I  cannot 
bear  it.  See,  thou  art  all  I  have,  thou  ;  I  have 
loved  thee  all  my  life.  Ah,  mon  dieu,  how 
couldst  thou  promise  !  "     Now  I  grant  that  we 


12  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN 

ought  to  have  risen  at  once,  and  gone  away; 
but  I  am  not  relating  what  we  ought  to  have 
done,  but  what  we  did  do,  which  was  to  sit  still 
and  listen  with  all  our  ears.  The  woman  an- 
swered. The  other's  voice  was  rough  and  thick 
from  passion  :  but  hers  was  very  gentle  and  quiet. 

"  I  will  tell  thee,  Isadore,"  she  said  (Susan 
pinched  my  arm)  ;  "  I  came  here  to  tell. 
Thou  knowest  maman  has  a  great  opinion  of 
M.  Tremblay,  who  has  been  her  only  friend, 
though  he  has  so  little  reason." 

"  It  was  but  that  he  might  marry  ^/lee,"  cried 
Isadore,  "  curse  his  craft}^  head  ! " 

"May  be,"  answered  the  woman  wearily, 
"though  I  think  not;  but  he  has  been  ever 
kind  to  us,  since  before  I  was  born.  And 
maman  was  glad,  very  glad,  when  he  would 
marry  me." 

"  And  was  it  tJiat "  — 

"  Hush !  no,  my  friend.  It  was  hard  to  re- 
fuse her  who  has  lived  so  wearying  a  life  and 
had  so  great  disappointments,  but  I  thought  of 
thee.  Then  —  then  —  she  told  me.  Isadore, 
maman — maman  is  going  blind!"  The  voice 
which  was  so  steady  broke,  but  in  a  second  it 
went  on  quietly  as  before.  "  It  is  that,  my 
friend,  that  made  me  promise.  M.  le  docteur 
says  if  she  will  go  to  Montreal  to  the  great 
doctor  there,  he  will  make  her  eyes  well  again. 


THE  OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  13 

But  it  will  cost  a  great,  great  sum  of  money, 
two  hundred  dollars.  And  M.  Tremblay  has 
promised  to  give  it  her,  and  more,  besides, 
when  I  marry  him.  And  if  she  does  not  go, 
she  must  become  quite  blind.  Already  she 
cannot  spin  the  yarn  even,  and  when  she  feels 
the  lumps  afterwards,  she  weeps."  There  was 
a  somid  like  a  groan.  "Do  not  weep,  my 
friend,"  she  continued,  "  it  cannot  be  for  long. 
He  is  so  very  old." 

This  practical  view  of  the  matter  hardly 
seemed  to  console  the  lover,  who  burst  out: 
*'  Thou  dost  not  understand  it,  thou !  Ah,  no," 
—  he  swore  a  grpat  oath,  with  a  sob  in  his 
throat,  —  "I  will  not  endure  it.  Listen,  I  have 
five  dollars.  I  will  sell  Bac.  We  will  go  to 
Quebec  and  be  married.  Ah,  think,  m'amie, 
thou  and  I." 

There  was  a  break  filled  by  a  very  pretty 
sound,  then  the  soft  voice  again.  "Ah,  no, 
Isadore,  thou  must  not  kiss  me.  It  cannot  be. 
I  have  sworn  before  the  image  of  the  blessed 
Virgin  to  marry  him.  And,  beside  —  oh,  Isa- 
dore, how  could  I  leave  her  behind,  to  grow 
blind  —  without  me ! "  Isadore  did  not  answer. 
The  vesper  bell  rang  from  the  church  tower. 
"  My  friend,"  said  the  girl,  "  I  must  go.  I  can 
never  see  thee  alone  again.  Wilt  thou  not  for- 
give me,  first?" 


14  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"I  might  kill  him,"  said  the  man. 

"And  be  hanged  for  it?"  answered  his 
practical  sweetheart,  "how  would  that  help?  " 

"  He  would  be  dead,"  said  the  desperate 
Isadore,  "  he  could  not  marry  thee.  Mon  dieu, 
it  would  help  much  !  " 

"  But  thy  soul,  it  would  burn  forever  !  " 

"It  would  not  burn,"  said  Isadore,  practical 
in  his  turn,  "  I  would  repent  and  confess  to  the 
priest  and  he  would  absolve  me." 

"  But  he  could  not  bring  thee  back  to  life. 
Oh,  Isadore,  promise  me  thou  wilt  put  away 
such  thoughts  !     Thou  art  cruel,  thou  !  " 

"  Ah,  dost  thou  feel  what  is  tearing  my 
h6art?"  cried  poor  Isadore. 

"Look  at  me,"  said  the  woman,  "  dost  thou 
remember  my  face  a  month  ago  ?  I  cannot 
speak  when  I  suffer,  like  thee ;  I  can  only  bear 
it."  The  man  was  kissing  her  again,  and  cry- 
ing quite  openly.  "  Isadore,"  said  she,  "  I  must 
go.  Bid  me  farewell.  No,  do  not  hold  me. 
See,  thou  hast  often  complained  that  I  never 
will  kiss  thee.     This  once." 

I  think  they  were  both  crying  now.  We 
were  ashamed  to  listen  longer  and  got  up,  but 
in  a  few  moments  a  woman's  shape  flitted 
round  the  curve  and  passed  us.  She  was  tall 
and  had  black  hair ;  we  both  recognized  M^- 
lanie.    "  Oh,  poor  things  !  "  cried  my  dear  wife, 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  15 

"  and  we  are  so  happy  ;  can't  we  help  them, 
Maurice  ?  "  I  said  that  we  might  try.  Any- 
how, it  would  n't  cost  more  than  a  picture. 
"  So  Melanie  is  the  old  ogre's  victim,  is  she  ?  " 
said  I ;  "  what  possesses  her  mother  ?  " 

In  truth,  Tremblay,  in  the  village  eyes,  was 
worse  than  an  ogre.  All  the  world  knew  him 
to  be  a  miser  to  his  nail  points,  a  cruel,  surly 
old  reprobate.  He  was  a  heretic  and  a  scoffer 
at  the  saints.  He  had  amassed  (doubtless  by 
baleful  means)  what  was  great  wealth  in  that 
simple  community.  Most  of  the  villagers  were 
in  his  debt ;  nor  was  this  the  worst,  he  had 
possessed  himself  of  all  the  secrets  of  the  parish. 
How?  The  doctor  talked  about  gossip;  but 
there  was  a  sinister  theory  more  in  favor. 
Under  the  confessional  floor,  in  the  church, 
was  a  space  between  the  timbers  large  enough 
for  a  dog  to  lie,  and  Xavier,  strong  and  supple, 
in  spite  of  his  eighty  years,  could  curl  his  short 
body  into  a  dog's  compass ;  the  abominable 
wickedness  would  only  give  a  zest  to  the  act, 
for  the  old  infidel. 

"  But  what  secrets  can  you  have  ?  "  I  said  to 
the  doctor,  "  they  can't  be  very  bad." 

"  There  is  a  black  spot  in  the  human  heart, 
everywhere,  Monsieur,"  answered  the  doctor. 
Wherever  the  black  spot,  Xavier  was  sure  to 
put  his  wicked  old  finger  on  it  and  gibe  at  the 


16  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

victim's  wincing.  Then  he  would  creep  away, 
chuckling,  to  the  ground,  or,  may  be,  to  his  pet 
devil,  for  St.  Alphonse  firmly  believed  in  such 
a  familiar. 

My  own  acquaintance  with  the  ogre  was 
limited  to  one  interview.  I  found  him  unload- 
ing blueberries,  on  the  wharf,  his  cart  and  a 
sorry  skeleton  of  a  horse  beside  him.  A  nearer 
view  did  not  give  one  a  better  opinion  of  his 
looks.  He  was  of  low  stature,  with  enormously 
long  arms,  and  disproportionately  broad  shoul- 
ders. I  asked  him  a  question;  in  French,  of 
course. 

"Me  spik  Englis,"  croaked  the  old  sinner. 

He  insisted  on  speaking  a  kind  of  mongrel 
English  in  answer  to  my  French,  and  we  did 
not  make  much  advance.  By  and  by  another 
man  appeared  and  I  tried  to  talk  to  him.  In- 
stantly Xavier's  lean  fingers  were  tapping  my 
shoulder. 

"  He  no  spik  Englis  tall,"  said  the  exasper- 
ating monster. 

"  Tant  mieux,"  said  I,  "at  least  I  shall  un- 
derstand him  ! " 

"Mais  peut-Stre,  M'sieu',"  be  retorted  grin- 
ning, "  he  no  vill  undertands  you  !  " 

I  surrendered,  bought  a  box  of  berries  (at  an 
awful  price),  and  left  him  leering  like  a  gar- 
goyle.    Recalling  that  leer,  I  pitied  Melanie. 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  17 

What  a  husband  for  a  girl  of  twenty  !  Susan 
and  I  talked  the  affair  over,  discussing  half  a 
dozen  plans  of  rescue.  The  most  obvious 
was  to  go  to  the  widow.  We  went.  Susan 
broached  the  subject,  after  a  diplomatic  pur- 
chase of  hollyhocks.  She  spoke  of  Melanie,  of 
her  beauty,  her  pleasant  ways,  of  our  interest 
in  her.  We  had  heard  that  she  was  to  be  mar- 
ried ;  might  we  offer  our  sincere  wishes  for  her 
happiness  ? 

"Oway,  Madame,"  the  widow  replied,  with 
a  certain  ominous  contraction  of  the  muscles  of 
the  mouth,  "  she  will  be  happy ;  M.  Tremblay 
has  a  good  heart." 

"But,"  said  Susan,  "pardon,  Madame  —  it 
is  our  great  interest  in  Melanie  —  is  not  M. 
Tremblay  very  old  ?  " 

We  were  in  the  garden,  all  four  of  us,  for 
the  idiot  brother-in-law  was  there  also,  piling 
brush ;  Madame  had  been  hoeing ;  she  struck 
her  hoe  smartly  on  the  ground  and  rested  her 
elbows  on  the  handle,  her  chin  on  her  hands, 
and  so  eyed  us  grimly. 

"  Without  doubt,  Madame,"  said  she ;  "quay 
done  ?  He  will  die  the  sooner.  In  ten,  in  five 
years  she  will  be  a  widow,  rich,  free." 

"  Consider  those  same  five  years,  Madame," 
I  cried,  "  the  trouble,  the  misery,  perhaps." 

Her  lip  cui'led.     "  M'sieu'  has  heard  the  talk 


18  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

of  the  village.  They  are  imbeciles,  they.  M. 
Tremblay  is  a  miser.  Bah,  look  around  you, 
M'sieu'.  This  house,  that  wood,  for  a  nothing, 
a  few  vegetables — from  a  miser!  Look  at 
him,"  pointing  to  the  idiot,  "those  clothes  are 
from  M.  Tremblay,  from  the  miser!  In"  the 
house  is  a  fiddle,  one  of  the  most  beautiful. 
It  is  for  him.  M.  Tremblay  gave  it  him.  For 
why  ?  can  he  play  ?  Mon  dieu,  no ;  but  it 
pleases  him  to  make  a  noise,  and  M.  Tremblay 
bought  it.  When  Mdlanie  was  a  little  child  he 
always  bought  her  things,  snowshoes,  a  tobog- 
gan, a  doll  from  Quebec.  No  child  in  St.  Al- 
phonse  has  a  doll  like  that.  A  miser!  bah, 
lies  of  the  devil !  " 

"  But  he  is  a  wicked  man,  cruel,  harsh,"  I 
persisted. 

"  Never  to  us,  M'sieu',  never,  never!" 

"  He  is  a  heretic." 

"  Et  M'sieu'  ?  "  said  the  widow. 

"  I  am  not  to  marry  a  Catholic.  But  he  is 
worse,  he  scoffs  at  the  saints  and  does  not  be- 
lieve in  the  good  God  himself." 

"  The  good  God  knows  better,"  said  Madame 
Guion  placidl3^ 

I  tried  another  tack.  "  But  Melanie  may 
love  some  one  else." 

"  M'sieu'  means  Isadore  Clovis,"  said  the 
widow,  drawing  her  tall  figure  to  its  full  height. 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA   HA   BAY.  19 

and  thougli  I  am  a  big  fellow,  her  eyes  were 
nearly  level  with  mine.  "  Eh  bien,  I,  too,  have 
loved  a  young  man,  M'sieu'.  It  was  twenty- 
five  years  ago,  and  M.  Tremblay  would  marry 
me,  but  I  was  a  fool,  I :  my  heart  was  set  on 
a  young  man  of  this  parish,  tall,  strong,  hand- 
some. I  quarreled  with  all  my  relations,  I 
married  him,  M'sieu'.  Within  a  month  of  our 
wedding  day  he  broke  my  arm,  twisting  it  to 
hurt  me.  He  was  the  devil.  Twice,  but  for 
his  brother,  he  would  have  killed  me.  Jules  is 
strong,  though  he  has  no  wits  ;  he  pulled  him 
off.  See,  M'sieu',"  flinging  the  hoe  aside  to 
push  the  hair  off  her  temples,  "this  he  did 
with  his  stick;  and  this,"  baring  her  arm, 
"  with  his  knife.  But  I  was  a  fool,  I  forgave 
him  and  worked  for  him.  He  would  do  noth- 
ing but  play  cards  and  drive  horses  and  drink, 
drink,  drink.  His  grandfather  was  an  English- 
man and  drank  himself  to  death.  The  English 
are  like  that.  And  I  —  I  forgave  him  and 
made  myself  old  and  wrinkled  and  black  work- 
ing for  money  for  him.  Then  he  would  laugh 
at  my  ugly  face  and  praise  the  village  girls' 
looks.  He  had  a  soul  of  mud  !  But  I  forgave 
that,  too.  Then  my  children  were  born,  and 
he  beat  them.  Then  I  forgave  no  more,  my 
heart  was  like  coals  of  fire.  Attendez,  M'sieu', 
I  have  the  mother's  heart,  I  love  my  children. 


20  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

yet  I  was  glad,  I,  when  they  died  and  were 
safe  from  him !  Figure,  then,  what  kind  of 
father  he  was  !  Only  Melanie  lived.  The  oth- 
ers would  cry,  cry ;  but  Melanie  did  not  cry, 
and  she  would  never  speak  to  him,  her  father. 
There  was  reason:  God  knows  what  women 
have  to  suffer,  and  He  takes  vengeance.  He, 
that  coward,  was  afraid  of  Melanie,  a  little 
baby,  because  she  would  not  speak  to  him.  He 
tried,  many  times,  to  make  her,  but  no,  she 
would  never  speak,  and  she  was  three  years  old 
when  he  died.  A  horse  kicked  him  and  killed 
him,  a  horse  that  he  was  beating !  " 

The  fool  had  dropped  his  sticks  and  was 
staring  at  her  piteously,  alarmed  at  her  ges- 
tures and  her  angry  voice.  He  ran  up  to  her 
and  stroked  her  hand,  uttering  a  mournful,  in- 
articulate sound. 

"Ce  n'est  rien,  Jules,"  said  the  widow  smil- 
ing on  him,  "  sois  tranquil."  Jules  smiled,  too, 
and  nodded  his  head,  then  slunk  back  to  his 
task.  "  Do  you  understand,  M'sieu',  now," 
said  the  widow,  "  why  I  will  not  have  Melanie 
marry  a  young  man  ?  " 

''But  Isadore  is  so  good,"  said  Susan,  coming 
to  my  aid,  "he  would  not  be  cruel  to  Melanie." 

Madame  Guion  laughed  harshly.  "  He  ?  " 
she  shouted,  "  he  ?  ma  foy !  I  think  no.  My 
Melanie  could  lift  him  with  the  one  arm.     Al- 


TUE   OGRE   OF  HA   HA   BAY.  21 

ways,  she  has  taken  care  of  him.  Look  you: 
when  they  are  children,  she  puts  on  his  snow- 
shoes  ;  and  when  he  cries  for  the  cold,  she  puts 
on  him  her  mittens ;  and  she  will  fight  the  boys 
that  tease  him  because  he  is  Tremblay's  nephew. 
Always,  she  takes  care  of  him." 

"  But,  Madame,"  said  Susan  in  her  gentle 
voice,  "  if  they  have  loved  each  other  from 
childhood,  how  hard  for  them  to  be  separated 


now." 


"  It  would  be  harder,"  said  the  widow  in 
quite  another  tone,  "  to  marry  him  and  repent 
all  the  years  after.  Love,  it  is  pleasant,  but 
marriage,  that  is  another  pair  of  sleeves.  Tiens, 
Madame,  regard  the  women  of  this  village. 
Without  doubt  Madame  has  observed  them. 
They  work,  work,  work ;  they  scrub,  they  cook, 
they  weave,  they  spin,  they  knit,  they  make 
the  clothes ;  one  has  not  time  to  say  one's 
prayers ;  and  every  year  a  new  mouth  to  fill,  — 
mon  dieu,  one  mouth  ?  two  at  a  blow,  perhaps  ! 
That  makes  one  ugly  and  old.  If  Melanie  mar- 
ries Isadore  Clovis  she  will  be  like  these  oth- 
ers, so  poor,  so  tired,  so  ugly ;  and  there  will  be 
the  children  and  her  poor  old  blind  mother  can- 
not help  her.  Ah,  mon  dieu,  I  will  not  have 
such  a  fate  come  to  my  beautiful  one  !  " 

Then  I  spoke,  struggling  after  a  short  cut 
through  the  situation.     I  offered  to  pay  for  her 


22  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

journey  to  Montreal  and  to  do  something  for 
Isadore. 

The  widow's  face  stiffened ;  plainly  she  sus- 
pected the  Greeks'  gifts.  "And  why  should 
M'sieu'  incommode  himself  for  my  eyes  ?"  said 
she. 

I  thought  I  had  better  let  Susan  do  the  rest 
of  the  talking.  Her  tact  is  equal  to  any  de- 
mand. "  It  is  for  Melanie,  too,  you  under- 
stand," said  she,  "  I  am  fond  of  Melanie.  And 
see,  Madame,  we  are  two  lovers,  my  husband 
and  I "  (with  an  adorable  blush),  "  and  we  are 
very  happy  ;  we  should  like  to  make  two  other 
lovers  happy.  Is  not  that  what  the  good  God 
intends  we  should  do  with  happiness,  share 
it?" 

The  widow  Guion  smiled  a  faint  and  wintry 
smile,  saying  :  "  Truly,  M'sieu'  has  cause  to  be 
happy.  But  look  you,"  she  continued  rapidly, 
"  M'sieu'  does  not  understand.  •  It  is  not  for 
myself.  To  see  Mdlanie  rich,  content,  I  would 
be  blind,  deaf,  dumb ! "  At  this  climax  of 
calamities  she  spread  her  hands  out  to  the  sky, 
and  the  fool  began  to  moan.  "  Melanie  will  be 
happier  with  M.  Tremblay,  —  not  now,  in  the 
end.  And  Isadore,  too,  he  will  be  happier  ;  his 
uncle  will  then  give  him  a  farm,  —  he  has  told 
me ;  he  will  marr^^,  he  will  content  himself,  he 
is  a  slight  creature.     It  is  not  for  him  to  marry 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY. 

M^lanie.  For  see,  Madame,  she  has  always  had 
better  than  the  other  children.  Often,  I  have 
worked  all  night  that  she  might  wear  a  pretty 
robe  to  the  church.  She  has  been  to  the  con- 
vent at  Chicontimi ;  she  has  accomplishments  : 
she  can  embroider,  she  can  make  flowers  with 
wool,  she  can  play  on  the  piano.  One  can  see 
she  is  superior  to  the  other  girls  of  the  village. 
M.  Trembla}^  will  do  everything  for  her  ;  he 
will  take  her  to  Quebec.  Ah,  Madame,  it  is 
because  I  love  my  little  one  that  I  would  give 
her  to  M.  Tremblav." 

Evidently  we  could  hope  nothing  from  Me- 
lanie's  mother.  Simultaneously  Susan  and  I 
gave  it  up,  and  Susan  covered  our  retreat  with 
an  order  for  beets,  to  be  delivered  at  the  hotel. 

But  I  thought  that  I  understood  the  situation 
better.  I  believed  Madame  Guion  told  us  the 
truth :  she  was  only  seeking  her  daughter's 
happiness.  She  had  an  intense  but  narrow 
nature,  and  her  life  of  toil,  hard  and  busy 
tbough  it  was,  being  also  lonely  and  quiet, 
rather  helped  than  hindered  brooding  over  her 
sorrows.  Her  mind  was  of  the  true  peasant 
type,  the  ideas  came  slowly  and  were  tenacious 
of  grip.  Love  had  been  ruin  to  her.  It  meant 
heartbreak,  bodily  anguish,  the  torture  of  im- 
potent anger,  and  the  bitterest  humiliation. 
Therefore,  her  fixed  determination  was  to  save 


24  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Melanie  from  its  delusions.  And  because  her 
own  bloom  had  withered  under  sordid  hardships, 
she  yearned  with  passionate  longing  to  ward 
them  off  her  child.  These  two  desires  had 
come  to  fill  her  whole  mind.  Old  Xavier 
offered  to  gratify  both.  Besides,  he  was  the 
giver  of  whatever  small  comforts  had  brightened 
her  poverty ;  she  was  grateful,  and  it  is  quite 
possible  that  she  wanted  to  make  amends  for 
the  past.  As  for  those  aspects  of  the  marriage 
which  revolted  us,  privations  and  drudgery 
blunt  sentiment  in  women  even  more  effectually 
than  in  men.  Madame  Guion  felt  no  horror 
in  such  a  union  simply  because  she  could  not 
see  any.  These  conclusions  solved  the  problem 
of  the  widow's  motives,  but  they  did  not  help, 
in  the  least,  to  change  them,  or  to  make  her 
more  friendly  towards  Isadore.  We  tried  the 
young  people,  next.  I  talked  with  Isadore,  and 
Susan  with  Melanie.  It  was  all  plain  sailing 
with  the  man.  He  poured  out  his  woes  to  me, 
on  the  way  to  Lake  Ravel,  with  true  Gallic 
effusion.  His  uncle  had  been  kind  to  him,  after 
a  gruff  and  silent  fashion,  when  a  lad,  but  now, 
grown  to  manhood,  he  found  himself  frankly 
despised. 

"  He  has  said  of  me,  '  C'est  un  vrai  bleche,' " 
cried  Isadore,  grinding  his  teeth.  "  Bac,  arretes 
done  !  "     The  horse,  plunging  at  the  sight  of 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA   BAY.  25 

a  fallen  tree,  was  calmed  instantly ;  I  could  not 
help  admiring  the  lad's  mastery  of  the  animal. 

"  He  would  not  say  that,  if  he  had  seen  you 
drive  Bac  when  he  was  frightened,"  I  said. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  Isadore ;  "  I  am  good  to 
Bac  and  he  knows  it,  that  is  all.  He  taught 
me  to  be  kind  to  animals.  He  buys  old  horses 
that  are  beaten.  M'sieu'  has  seen  the  last, 
Charlay,  a  sight  to  make  fear.  He  will  not  be 
so  long,  he  will  be  fat,  lazy,  like  the  others. 
He  says  :  '  Dame,  I  can  get  work  out  of  them, 
e'estbon  marche  ! '  But  it  is  not  for  that  he 
loves  all  animals.  He  loves  the  fool,  also  ;  but 
all  good  people  he  hates,  and  he  curses  the 
saints,  he  is  so  wicked,"  said  Isadore,  piously 
crossing  himself. 

Certainly  his  uncle  knew  of  his  attachment. 
*'  He  is  glad  that  I  suffer,"  said  Isadore. 
"  M'sieu',  I  speak  to  you  with  the  heart  open  ; 
sometimes  I  think  that  I  will  kill  myself,  but 
Melanie  then  will  weep,  and  I  must  burn,  my- 
self, forever,  also.  No,  I  will  go  away,  she 
shall  never  see  me  again.  I  will  go  to  Chi- 
contimi !  " 

Chicontimi  being  barely  nine  miles  away 
rather  blunted  the  point  of  this  tragic  threat ; 
but  the  poor  fellow's  grief  and  rage  were  real 
enough.  There  was  no  question  about  his 
willingness  to  be  helped.     He  burst  into  tears 


26  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

and  insisted  upon  embracing  me  over  the  front 
seat.  He  would  do  anything,  he  would  go  any- 
where, he  was  my  slave  for  life.  Then  he  cried 
again. 

Melanie,  as  the  French  say,  was  more  diffi- 
cult. At  first  she  could  hardly  believe  in 
Susan's  offers.  Finally  convinced,  the  poor 
girl  grew  quite  white  with  emotion ;  all  she  did, 
however,  was  to  lift  a  fold  of  Susan's  gown, 
press  it  tightly  between  her  two  hands  to  her 
heart,  and  then  let  it  drop  ;  —  an  odd  gesture, 
which,  nevertheless,  Susan  found  infinitely  ex- 
pressive. 

But  she  could  not  be  swerved  from  her  pur- 
pose. She  had  sworn  before  the  Virgin ;  to 
retreat  now  would  break  her  mother's  heart ; 
moreover,  the  marriage  would  be  the  best  thing 
for  Isadore,  since  M.  Tremblay,  who  never 
broke  his  word,  had  promised  to  give  his  nephew 
a  farm  on  his  wedding  day.  That  Isadore 
might  reject  the  gift  did  not  occur  to  Melanie  ; 
the  habitants  have  no  morbid  scruples  of  deli- 
cacy —  well,  I  do  not  know  that  it  would  have 
occurred  to  Isadore,  either. 

Susan  would  have  tried  to  show  her  the  sure 
unhappiness  in  such  a  marriage,  but  her  first 
words  were  stopped  by  the  girl's  quivering 
mouth  and  the  miserable  appeal  of  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  do  not  tell  it  me,  Madame,"  she  cried, 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  27 

"  I  tell  myself  until  I  cannot  sleep  any  more  at 
night.     I  work,  work,  all  day,  to  be  tired  ;  but 
at   night   it   is   only  that  my  bones  ache,  the 
thoughts  will  not  stop.     I  cannot  eat  or  sleep, 
and  always  there  is  the  same  hard  pain  here:' 
She   touched,  not   her   heart,  but   her   throat. 
"  Some  day,  it  will  choke  me,  I  think,"  said  she. 
Yet  she  spoke  of  Tremblay  without  bitterness, 
saying:   "  He  was  very  good  to  me  when  I  was 
young.     For  why  should   he  be  good  at  all  ? 
All  the  world  has  been  unkind  to  him.     When 
he  was  a  little  child,  his   own   mother  did  not 
love  him  because  he  was  ugly.     He  had  a  great 
misfortune  in  his  youth,  also ;  what,  I  do  not 
know,  but  he  will  often  say  to  maman,  'Beware 
of  doing  services  to  people,  Madame.     When  I 
was  young  I  was  a  fool.     I  did  kindnesses,  I 
would  be  loved.    Men  are  like  wolves,  they  bite 
the  hand  that  feeds  them.    Be  feared,  Madame, 
that  is  best.'    He  makes  himself  feared.     What 
he  says,  he  does.     He  has  vowed  to  marry  a 
maiden  of  twenty,  and  he  will  keep  his  vow ! 
Look  you,  the  mother  gave  him  the  key  of  the 
fields,!  he  will  marry  the  daughter  ;  he  makes 
two  blows  with  a  stone." 

Meanwhile    the    matter  was  the    absorbing 
topic  at  the  Bay,  our  unlucky  efforts  to  assist 

'^  Donner  le  clef  des  champs,  a  satirical  expression  for  a  dis- 
missal. 


28  KNITTERS  IN   THE  SUN. 

the  lovers  being  as  much  common  property  as 
Isadore's  despair  or  Melanie's  filial  submission. 
This  was  just  a  trifle  embarrassing,  since  we 
could  hardly  buy  a  candle  that  a  multitude  of 
volunteer  counselors  did  not  troop  about  us  ; 
or  row  on  the  Bay  without  the  boatman's  in- 
quiring anxiously  what  we  meant  to  do  next. 
Not  a  mother's  son  had  a  suggestion  to  offer ; 
but  they  all  showed  a  cheerful  confidence  in  our 
ingenuity,  and  were  amazingly  sympathetic. 

While  this  went  on,  I  was  seeing  Xavier 
daily.  Sometimes  he  would  be  walking,  at- 
tended by  a  starving  retinue  of  curs,  sometimes 
driving  Charlay ;  always  he  would  grin  at  me 
in  his  gargoyle  fashion ;  but  our  acquaintance 
got  no  further  until  the  day  I  ran  against  him 
on  the  pier,  talking  English  to  Susan.  Susan 
was  talking  English  also. 

"Why  not?"  was  her  comment,  "he  likes 
it.  He  is  going  to  show  us  over  his  cr^merie, 
this  afternoon.  You  know  I  have  an  interest 
in  a  cremerie,  myself  —  and  by  good  luck  I  've 
been  through  it." 

We  spent  three  mortal  hours  in  old  Xavier's 
creamery,  Susan  admiring  things  right  and  left. 
Somewhere  about  Tremblay's  porcupine  nature 
must  have  been  a  soft  spot  of  vanity,  and  my 
clever  wife  found  it,  for  actually  he  looked  al- 
most human  while  he  talked  to  her,  and  the 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  29 

grin  that  seemed  carved  on  his  face  was  soft- 
ened into  an  uncouth  smile. 

"Susan,"  said  I,  "you  are  an  unprincipled 
woman,  flattering  that  clown  !  " 

"  Maurice,"  she  answered  gravely,  "  he  inter- 
ests me  greatly." 

The  following  day,  being  Sunday,  we  went 
to  church.  We  liked  the  little  church  of  St. 
Alphonse,  with  its  walls  covered  with  mortar 
decorated  by  laths  in  wavy  lines,  to  give  a 
foothold  to  future  plaster ;  its  pillars  hewn  out 
of  pine  logs  ;  its  echoing  floors;  its  altogether 
dreadful  stations  and  images,  and  its  poor  little 
tawdry  altars.  Whenever  mass  was  celebrated 
a  dingy  and  crumpled  flock  of  surplices  crowded 
the  chancel.  It  was  worth  a  long  journey  to 
see  the  easy  attitudes  of  the  choristers,  as  they 
lounged  in  their  stalls  or  shambled  through  the 
ritual.  They  all  had  colds,  and  expectorated 
with  artless  freedom.  Choristers  and  organist 
generally  started  together  on  the  chants;  but 
soon  the  voices  would  lose  the  key  and  wander 
helplessly  off,  amid  a  howling  mob  of  discords, 
while  the  organist  was  sternly  plodding  her 
way  through  her  notes,  leaving  them  to  their 
fate.  Withal  there  was  no  irreverence  ;  on  the 
contrary,  a  devout  attention.  I  used  to  watch 
the  people  telling  their  beads  or  kneeling  at 
their  prayers,  and  question  whether  their  life 


30  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

seemed  to  tliem  the  innocent  and  stupid  affair 
that  it  seemed  to  me.  Thus  gazing,  this  Sun- 
day, I  was  aware  that  the  aisle  was  ilhiminated 
by  a  blaze  of  red  satin,  followed  by  a  rusty 
black  gown,  —  Melanie  and  her  mother.  Me- 
lanie's  gay  frock  was  trimmed  with  cheap 
white  lace.  Susan  called  it  a  "nightmare" 
later,  and  it  certainly  did  suggest  the  splendors 
of  the  chorus  in  a  comic  opera ;  but,  all  the 
same,  it  was  amazingly  becoming,  and  the  girl's 
pallor  and  troubled  eyes  only  enhanced  her 
beauty.  No  wonder  the  young  men  stared  at 
her  and  the  women  whispered. 

The  cure  preached  a  good  sermon  enough ; 
but  I  could  have  wished  a  less  appropriate  sub- 
ject than  the  sin  of  broken  vows.  Melanie  sat 
like  a  statue,  hardly  seeming  to  hear,  her  beads 
dangling  from  her  limp  fingers.  The  only  vis- 
ible portion  of  the  widow's  shape  was  her  back, 
but  I  fancied  a  grim  complacency  in  the  way 
she  sat  bolt  upright  and  held  her  chin  in  the 
air.  After  mass  we  had  the  excitement  of  a 
shower.  There  was  the  customary  huddling 
under  the  church  porch,  while  the  fortunate 
owners  of  "  buckboards  "  drove  up,  in  turn,  and 
stored  their  womankind  on  the  sheltered  back 
seats.  I  had  a  glimpse  of  Bac's  tossing  mane 
among  the  horses,  and  saw  Isadore  standing  up 
in  the  ''  buckboard,"  looking  for  Melanie.     I 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  31 

heard  him  offer  his  vehicle  to  Madame  Guion. 
Simultaneously,  old  Xavier  climbed  up  the 
church  steps,  in  his  ordinary  garb  of  homespun, 
with  plenty  of  mud  on  his  boots.  His  long 
arm  extended  itself  under  two  or  three  interven- 
ing shoulders,  and  jerked  the  Avidow's  shawl. 
What  he  said  was  inaudible,  but  in  response, 
she  gathered  up  her  skirts  above  her  white 
stockings,  took  her  daughter  by  the  hand,  and 
strode  out  to  the  voiture  ^  la  planche.  Poor 
Isadore  was  already  at  Bac's  head  smiling.  He 
assisted  the  women  in  and  buttoned  the  apron 
over  their  knees.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  fol- 
low them  his  uncle's  long  arm  unceremoniously 
thrust  him  aside  and  the  old  man  climbed  into 
his  seat.  The  young  fellow  stood  like  one  stu- 
pefied.    His  fair  skin  turned  a  deep  red. 

-'  En  avant !  "  bawled  Xavier.  The  voice 
roused  Isadore.  Bac  flung  his  heels  into  the 
air  and  was  off,  Isadore  after  him,  screaming 
"  Take  care  !  Bac  will  go  for  none  but  me  ! 
Stop,  or  he  will  kill  you."  The  old  man's  an- 
swer was  the  whistle  of  a  whip.  I  don't  think 
that  Xavier  meant  to  touch  the  horse,  it  was  a 
mere  bit  of  a  bravado,  but  by  chance  the  lash 
did  fillip  Bac's  flank.  Up  he  went,  like  a  shot, 
pawing  the  air ;  then  round  in  a  furious  half  cir- 
cle. Xavier  pulled,  but  he  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  hold  a  whirlwind.  I  had  started  at  the 
same  instant,  and  was  abreast  of  Isadore. 


32  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  C'est  raon  affaire,"  he  cried,  jumping  at 
the  bits.  I  caught  the  animal  on  the  other  side. 
For  a  moment  I  expected  that  he  would  tram- 
ple the  life  out  of  both  of  us  ;  he  had  the 
strength  of  ten  horses.  But  Isadore  talked 
away  as  composedly  as  if  in  the  stable  yard : 
"  Arretes,  done,  Bac  ;  sois  sage  !  s-s-sh !  Why 
dost  thou  make  such  a  time,  little  fool  ?  "  And 
actually,  that  raving  devil  of  a  brute  stopped, 
trembling,  and  rubbed  his  nose  against  the 
habitant's  breast. 

"  M'sieu',  mon  oncle,"  said  Isadore  calmly, 
*'  have  the  goodness  to  debark.^  Bac  is  not 
safe  for  any  one  but  me  to  drive." 

The  old  man  looked  at  his  nepliew  and 
grinned.  Quite  composedly  he  got  down,  and 
stood  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  while  Isadore 
sprang  lightly  into  the  voiture  a  la  planche. 
Neither  of  the  women  spoke  :  the  widow  looked 
scared,  Melanie's  eyes  were  shining.  Isadore 
gravely  touched  his  hat  to  me  and  drove  away, 
old  Xavier  wrinkling  his  cheeks  over  his  eyes 
in  a  deeper  grin.  "  Bah,"  he  muttered,  "  he 
can  drive  the  little  one,"  and  stumped  off  with- 
out a  word  of  acknowledgment  to  me. 

Susan,  when  I  told  her  the  story,  held  that  it 

1  The  habitants  on  the  Sagueuay  and  St.  Lawrence  always 
use  deharquer  for  descendre,  probably  because  they  have  so 
much  to  do  with  boats. 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA   BAY.  33 

was  very  encouraging.     She  thought  that  she 
understood  the  mot  cVenigme  about  Tremblay. 

"  You  see,  Maurice,"  said  she,  "  he  is  awfully 
vain,  that  is  all.  Did  n't  you  ever  notice  that 
deformed  people  always  are  vain,  poor  things  ? 
Tremblay,  now,  has  a  consuming  desire  to  be 
noticed.  I  think  that  at  first  he  tried  to  win 
people's  affection,  and  I  imagine  he  met  with 
some  cruel  disappointments.  He  had  a  dismal 
childhood,  and  you  know,  yourself,  about  the 
widow  Guion.  I  believe  he  cared  more  for  her 
than  he  will  admit.  See  how  kind  he  has  been 
to  her.  He  may  pretend  all  sorts  of  mean 
motives  for  his  actions,  but  there  the  kind  ac- 
tions are.  You  see,  Maurice,  now  he  tries  to 
make  people  fear  him,  it  is  the  same  vanity, 
only  twisted  a  little.  He  takes  as  much  pains 
to  appear  wicked  and  cruel  as  other  people  do 
to  appear  good.  Why,  he  started  that  story 
about  the  confessional,  himself.  Depend  upon 
it,  it  is  nothing  but  his  vanity  makes  him  so 
obstinately  bent  on  marrying  a  girl  of  twenty." 
She  had  a  pretty  theory  about  his  having  been 
disappointed  in  Isadore.  "  He  took  the  child 
to  bring  up,"  said  she,  "  hoping,  I  feel  sure, 
though  he  may  not  have  owned  the  hope  to 
himself,  that  the  boy  would  be  on  his  side, 
would  share  his  hatred  of  mankind,  and  grow 
up  in  his  own  pattern.     If  Isadore  had  been  a 


34  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

bold,  fierce  sort  of  a  character,  I  believe  the  old 
man  would  have  grown  to  love  him ;  but  from 
the  first  the  boy  was  taken  up  by  the  village 
people,  and  he  has  all  their  ways  of  thinking. 
Then,  besides,  he  is  such  a  mild,  gentle,  ineffi- 
cient seeming  fellow  that  Tremblay  can't  en- 
dure it.  But  I  fancy  he  has  misjudged  Isadore, 
and  he  is  beginning  to  see  it.  He  would  be 
glad." 

I  did  n't  pretend  to  decide  whether  my  wife 
was  right,  nor  do  I  now;  but  this  is  what 
happened.  One  day  I  came  out  on  the  piazza 
to  find  the  two,  Xavier  and  Susan,  talking  ear- 
nestly. He  gave  me  a  nod,  saying,  "  Madame 
does  not  approve  of  me,  M'sieu' ;  she  thinks  I 
marry  quite  too  young  a  wife." 

"I  am  of  Madame's  opinion,"  said  I. 

Old  Xavier  looked  at  Susan's  pretty,  flushed 
cheeks  not  unkindly.  "  I  care  not  for  the 
people  here,"  he  said,  "  they  are  imbeciles, 
they  ;  but  her  I  find  different.  I  wish  to  make 
myself  understood.  Look  you,  I  want  no  wife ; 
but  they  have  made  a  mock  of  me  in  this 
parish.  None  shall  make  a  mock  of  Xavier 
Tremblay.  I  say, '  Oway,  I  am  old,  I  am  ugly, 
all  the  same,  bon  gre,  mal  gre,  I  can  marry  a 
girl  of  twenty.  I  swear  I  will  not  go  into  my 
new  house  before.'  Eh  bien,  the  time  goes  on. 
I  see  a  maiden  of  twenty,  not  beautiful,  stupid. 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  35 

but  good,  amiable.  She  has  but  one  eye.  Her 
people  are  unkind  to  her,  often  I  see  her  weep. 
I  have  compassion  ;  I  am  ugly,  myself,  Madame, 
and  in  my  youth  I  knew  what  it  was  to  weep. 
I  think  she  will  have  a  pleasanter  life  with  old 
Tremblay.  I  speak  kindly  to  her.  We  ar- 
range it;  she  is  not  difficult.  But  she  fell 
into  the  river  and  was  drowned.  Then  goes  a 
long  time.  Melanie  Guion  has  grown  up.  She 
pleases  me,  I  think  ;  the  mother  gave  me  the 
key  of  the  fields.  Good,  I  will  marry  the 
daughter.  I  will  show  these  beasts  that  Xa- 
vier  Tremblay  can  do  what  he  pleases.  But 
Madame  can  tell  Melanie  that  I  will  not  be 
troublesome  to  her,  and  when  I  am  dead  she 
may  marry  Isadore  ;  he  can  drive." 

"  You  have  shown  that  you  can  do  as  you 
please,  Monsieur,"  said  Susan:  "to  marry  Me- 
lanie will  not  show  it  any  more ;  all  the  world 
knows  that  she  has  promised." 

"  But  my  vow,  Madame,  and  my  new  house, 
I  tire  of  living  in  my  old  house,  c'est  bien 
ennuyant." 

There  was  our  sticking,  his  preposterous  old 
new  house.  He  could  not  endure  its  standing 
reminder  of  his  unfulfilled  vow  ;  the  very  sight 
of  the  walls  which  he  might  not  enter  chafed 
his  vanity ;  to  live  in  it  had  grown  to  be  a 
corroding   ambition,  and  the   day  whereon  he 


36  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

should  step  across  those  mi  completed,  yet  half 
ruined  thresholds  appeared  to  his  imagination 
as  the  climax  of  his  life.  We  asked  too  much, 
asking  him  to  give  up  such  visions. 

All  this  while,  Isadore  was  haunting  the 
hotel,  waiting  with  forlorn  patience  for  a  word 
or  look  from  me.  I  repeated  his  uncle's  words 
to  him,  whereupon  he  frowned  darkly,  and  in- 
formed me  that  he  longed  to  kill  the  old  man ; 
a  confidence  which  disturbed  me  little,  since  I 
had  my  own  opinion  of  Isadore's  resolution. 

By  this  time  I  was  decidedly  uncomfortable, 
myself.  The  way  Isadore  morally  flopped  over 
on  me,  as  it  were,  had  a  subtle  tinge  of  irrita- 
tion in  its  helplessness.  Why  could  not  the 
fellow  lift  a  hand  for  himself?  and  the  villagers 
w^ere  worse.  They  maintained  a  maddening 
confidence  in  my  astuteness.  When  the  no- 
tary assured  me  that  "  the  old  fox  "  (meaning 
Tremblay)  had  met  his  match  (meaning  me), 
and  Madame  Pingat,  the  postmistress,  gave  me 
expressions  of  faith  with  my  letters,  and  the 
blacksmith,  winking  very  pleasantly,  told  me 
that  he  could  guess  what  I  was  after,  talking 
with  old  Xavier,  I  felt  like  swearing;  and 
when  Madame  Vernet,  who  kept  a  "  general 
shop,"  sold  me  a  tea-kettle  for  a  coffee-pot  (one 
boiled  quite  as  well  as  the  other,  she  said,  and 
the  habitants  used  them  indiscriminately)  and 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA   HA   BAY.  37 

asked  me  if  I  did  n't  think  it  time  to  do  some- 
thing decisive,  I  went  out  and  kicked  an  un- 
offending dog.  Pretty  soon,  I  felt  that  we 
should  have  to  fly  the  country.  Like  Susan,  I 
now  rested  my  slender  hope  on  getting  out  of 
the  mess  with  credit  upon  old  Xavier,  and  I 
was  glad  when  an  opportunity  presented  for 
another  appeal.  Isadore  was  to  drive  me  to 
Lake  Kavel  for  a  day  of  trout  fishing ;  but  the 
evening  previous  he  appeared  with  his  arm  in 
a  sling.  He  had  sprained  his  right  wrist  and 
offered  his  uncle's  services  in  his  stead,  saying 
that  the  latter  had  a  better  horse  than  Chaiiay. 
So  old  Xavier  took  me  to  the  lake.  There  I 
praised  Isadore  in  French  and  English. 

"You  love  'im,"  said  the  old  ogre,  blinking 
at  me  with  his  keen  eyes,  "  mais  moi,  me  tink 
'im  vaurien  ;  can  mek  wiz  ze  'orse,  notings  of 
morre,  non.  Bah,  for  wy  he  laisse  me  tek  'is 
amie  avays  ?  "  From  which  I  gathered  that  he 
did  not  regard  Isadore  as  a  young  man  of 
spirit.  In  fact,  I  did  n't  think  much  of  my 
habitant's  spirit  myself,  but  I  had  a  suspicion 
that  he  wanted  to  be  contradicted,  that  long 
silent  instincts  of  blood  were  roused  and  speak- 
ing; perhaps,  too,  some  faint  emotions  of  com- 
passion for  the  girl  who  had  been  fond  of  him 
as  a  child. 

"  Chut,"  he  muttered,  relapsing  into  his  own 


38  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

tongue,  "  I  will  not  be  troublesome  to  Melanie. 
It  is  a  good  little  girl.  I  should  have  been  her 
father,  I;  I  have  thought  that  always." 

"Make  her  your  niece,  then,"  said  I,  "that's 
next  best." 

"  And  never  go  into  my  new  house  ?  Mais 
non,  ca  ne  va  pas  !  " 

There  we  stuck  fast  again.  Briefly,  I  made 
another  failure,  and  by  the  time  evening  came 
and  we  were  in  sight  of  the  village  I  was  de- 
cidedly out  of  temper.  The  first  thing  I  no- 
ticed put  my  chagrin  to  flight.  Little  crowds 
of  people  going  homewards  gazed  at  us  curi- 
ously, until,  suddenly,  Xavier  shook  his  whip 
handle  at  a  broken,  lazy  cloud  of  smoke  and 
urged  his  horse  into  a  gallop.  Reason  enough  ! 
the  smoke  was  rising  from  the  ruins  of  his 
"  new  house."  A  sorry  sight  they  made ; 
heaps  of  blackened  and  crumbling  stone  which 
had  been  walls,  charred  skeletons  of  joists,  and 
distorted  shapes  of  tin  or  iron  showed  the  fierce 
power  of  the  fire.  Jets  of  flame  were  still 
playing  with  the  remnants  of  window  frames, 
and  puffs  of  black  smoke  rose  only  to  sink 
again  and  drift  forlornly  above  the  wreck. 
Men  with  buckets  and  blankets,  women  hold- 
ing babies  in  their  arms,  and  a  crowd  of  chil- 
dren stood  around  talking  shrilly.  A  kind  of 
hush   fell   on    the    chatter    as    we    drove    up. 


o 


THE  OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  39 

Everybody  stared  at  old  Xavier.  His  iron 
composure  gave  no  clew  to  his  feelings.  "My 
stable,"  said  old  Xavier,  "  what  of  the  horses?" 
A  medley  of  voices  explained  that  Isadore  had 
saved  the  horses.  If  we  were  to  believe  the 
women,  he  had  been  a  prodigy  of  valor.  Xa- 
vier listened  with  his  smirk  that  was  uglier 
than  a  frown.  "  Where  then  is  he,  this  brave 
fellow?"  said  he.  Half  a  dozen  boys  started 
after  Isadore. 

I  did  not  wait  for  his  arrival.  Seeing  Susan 
standing  a  little  to  one  side,  I  joined  her.  She 
told  me  about  the  fire.  It  seems  that  a  party 
of  tourists,  coming  and  going  by  the  morning's 
boat,  had  been  shown  through  the  village  by 
Isadore  and  little  Antoine  Vernet.  The  gen- 
tlemen, who  had  somehow  heard  of  old  Xavier, 
expressed  a  curiosity  to  go  into  his  house. 
They  pulled  the  boards  off  a  window  and 
climbed  in  and  roamed  over  the  house.  They 
were  smoking,  and  there  was  a  quantity  of  dry 
wood  and  shavings  about.  Little  Antoine  said 
that  Isadore  asked  them  to  put  out  their  cigars 
lest  a  spark  should  set  these  afire  ;  but  they 
did  not  appear  to  understand  him.  After  they 
were  gone,  almost  three  hours,  the  fire  broke 
out.  The  whole  house  seemed  to  flash  into  a 
blaze  at  once.  When  Isadore,  brought  back 
from  the  pier,  arrived,  it  was  all  that  he  could 


40  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

do  to  save  the  horses  in  the  stable  and  the  old 
house. 

As  Susan  spoke,  I  saw  Isadore  and  his  uncle 
approaching,  and,  at  the  same  moment,  from 
the  opposite  direction,  the  widow  Guion  and 
Melanie.  Isadore's  expression  was  completely 
concealed  by  streaks  of  smut,  his  dress  was 
torn,  and  his  hair  disordered.  Old  Xavier  was 
grinning.  To  them  marched  Madame  Guion, 
dragging  Melanie  after  her.  She  did  not  so 
much  as  glance  at  us.  Then  I  saw  that  she 
was  livid  with  passion.  "  M'sieu,"  said  she,  in 
a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper,  but  holding  the 
energy  of  a  thunderbolt,  "  will  you  know  who 
set  fire  to  your  new  house  ?  " 

"  Without  doubt,  Madame,"  replied  Trem- 
blay ;  and  he  stopped  grinning. 

The  woman  thrust  out  a  long  forefinger  as 
she  might  have  thrust  a  knife,  crying,  "  Behold 
him !  " 

It  was  at  Isadore  that  she  stabbed  with  her 
hand,  the  finger  tapping  his  breast.  .He  re- 
coiled, but  answered  boldly  enough,  "  Madame, 
I  do  not  understand." 

"Comment?"  said  Xavier  between  his  teeth. 

"  Oway,  it  is  thou,  Isadore  Clovis,"  said  Ma- 
dame Guion,  always  in  the  same  suppressed, 
vibrating  tones,  "  that  burned  thy  uncle's  new 
house  ;  I  saw  it,  I,  with  these  eyes.     I  tell  it  to 


THE  OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  41 

him  and  to  these  Americans,  who  think  that  I 
should  have  given  my  daughter  to  thee  !  " 

M^lanie  threw  a  piteous  glance  around. 
"  Wait,  maman,"  she  begged,  ^'  he  will  ex- 
plain ! " 

"  Peste,"  growled  old  Xavier,  "  what  have 
we  here?  Speak,  Madame,  you.  Tell  what 
you  have  seen." 

The  widow  released  her  daughter's  hand  to 
have  both  her  own  free  for  dramatic  action  ; 
she  spoke  rapidly,  even  fiercely. 

"  Behold,  then,  M'sieu' ;  I  go,  this  morning, 
to  buy  a  pair  of  boots  for  Jules,  and  I  pass  your 
new  house.  A  window  has  the  board  hanging 
by  the  one  nail.  It  is  natural,  is  it  not  ?  I,  a 
mother,  wish  to  view  the  house  where  my 
daughter  shall  live.  So  I  look  in.  Behold  Is- 
adore,  your  nephew,  in  the  room.  He  splits 
boxes  to  pieces,  chop !  chop  !  with  both  arms, 
view  you,  he  that  pretends  an  arm  in  a  sling. 
Then  he  goes  out.  I  cannot  see  him,  but  I 
hear  chop  !  chop  !  again.  Then  he  comes  back ; 
he  has,  what  think  you  ?  a  kerosene  can  in  his 
hands.  He  goes  through  the  room.  He  does 
not  come  back.  Then  I  go  away.  I  think, 
'  What  makes  he  there  ?  '  I  cannot  compre- 
hend. A  long  time  passes.  It  arrives  that  I 
hear  them  crying  the  alarm.  Your  house 
burns,  M'sieu' !     I  run  quickly.      I  am  there 


42  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

among  the  first.  They  break  down  the  door 
but  the  fire  jumps  out,  ponf !  m  their  faces. 
I  run  to  my  window ;  there,  in  the  room,  is  the 
pile  of  wood  blazing — so  high!"  lifting  her 
arms.  "  So  was  it  in  every  room.  He  had 
made  piles  and  poured  on  the  kerosene.  I  have 
a  nose,  I ;  I  could  smell  it !  Now,  will  he  deny 
it,  le  scelerat  ?  " 

I  suppose  we  all  looked  at  Isadore.  M^lanie 
clasped  her  hands  and  took  a  step  towards  him. 
Old  Xavier  gave  his  nephew  a  front  view  of  a 
tolerably  black  scowl.  "  Eh  bien,  my  nephew," 
said  he,  "  what  sayst  thou?^'' 

Isadore's  sooty  face  could  not  show  a  change 
of  color,  but  in  his  stiffening  muscles,  the 
straightened  arms,  and  clinched  fists  one  could 
see  that  he  was  pulling  himself  together.  From 
childhood  he  had  been  taught  to  fear  the  old 
man  before  him,  and  those  whom  we  fear  in  our 
childhood,  we  seldom  can  defy  with  unbiased 
calmness  in  later  years;  there  is  apt  to  be  a 
speck  of  assertion  about  our  very  revolt.  A 
sort  of  desperate  hardihood  was  visible  in  Isa- 
dore's bearing,  now,  as  he  frowned  back  at  his 
uncle.  "  Oway,  mon  oncle,"  said  he,  in  a  stri- 
dent tone,  "  oway,  I  burned  your  accursed 
house.     Send  me  to  prison.     Meme  chose." 

M^lanie  uttered  a  low  moan  and  covered  her 
face. 


o 


THE  OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  43 

"  Come,  mon  enfant,"  said  the  widow  gently, 
"thou  seest  now."  She  would  have  put  her 
arm  about  the  girl,  but  Melanie  pushed  it  aside, 
ran  straight  to  Isadore,  and  caught  him  around 
his  neck  with  both  her  arms.  She  was  taller 
than  he,  so  she  drew  his  head  to  her  breast  in- 
stead of  resting  hers  upon  him. 

Old  Xavier  looked  on,  motionless.  "  Bon," 
he  said,  "  why  did  you  do  it  ?  " 

Isadore  lifted  his  head.  "  Why  ?"  repeated 
he ;  '*  have  I  the  heart  of  a  mouse  to  see  you 
take  Melanie  away  from  me  and  do  nothing  ? 
It  was  to  live  in  the  house  that  you  would 
marry  her.  If  the  house  were  burned,  it  might 
be  that  you  would  build  another  and  live  in 
it  without  a  wife.  Et  puis  —  I  burned  the 
house." 

"  And  thy  arm  ?     Was  it  hurt  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  young  fellow  sullenly, 
yet  boldly,  "  I  said  it  to  get  you  away  from 
home." 

"  And  the  gentlemen  from  the  boat  ?  " 

"  Some  one  must  bear  the  blame.  They 
were  smoking.  I  spoke  before  Antoine  that  he 
might  remember.  They  would  not  know  them- 
selves if  they  set  it  afire.  There  were  the  shav- 
ings and  the  wood.  When  they  were  gone  I 
came  back  and  made  the  piles  and  set  them 
afire,  so  that  the  house  should  be  all  afire  inside 
before  it  would  show  outside." 


44  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Old  Xavier  smote  his  thigh  with  his  hand 
and  burst  into  a  peal  of  harsh  laughter;  I 
thought  that  he  had  lost  his  wits  ;  but  no,  the 
strange  old  creature  simply  was  tickled  by  his 
nephew's  deviltry.  "  And  I  called  him  un 
vrai  bleche,"  he  muttered.  "  Madame,  you 
were  right,  it  is  a  lad  of  spirit  after  all.  He 
has  been  sharp  enough  to  make  a  fool  of  Xavier 
Tremblay,  and  of  you,  too,  M'sieu'." 

There  was  no  denying  it,  he  had,  and  as  I 
looked  at  him,  I  marveled  how  I  could  be  so 
blind;  these  nervous,  irrational,  feminine  tem- 
peraments, driven  to  bay,  always  fight  like  rats 
—  desperately.  With  nothing  to  lose,  Isadora 
looked  his  uncle  in  the  eye  and  smiled.  A 
grim  and  slow  smile  lighted  up  the  other's 
rough  features  like  a  reflection  ;  for  the  first 
time  one  could  trace  a  resemblance  between  the 
two  men. 

"  Come,  Madame,"  said  Xavier,  turning  to 
my  wife,  "  what  say  you  ?  " 

"  This,  Monsieur,"  replied  Susan,  who  alone 
of  us  took  the  old  man's  mood  for  what  it  was 
worth  :  "  he  proves  himself  your  own  nephew, 
since  he  can  cheat  you.  You  don't  want  the 
girl,  you  don't  want  the  house ;  you  have 
shown  that  you  could  do  what  you  please. 
Give  Melanie  to  Isadore,  and  we  will  see  that 
he  pays  you  for  the  house." 


o 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY,  45 

I  saw  that  Susan  meant  to  get  the  price  of 
that  picture. 

"Non,"  cried  Madame  Guion,  "I  will  not 
have  it  so  !  "  On  his  part  old  Xavier  actually- 
made  a  sort  of  bow  to  my  wife,  saying :  "  Ma- 
dame, I  thank  you,  but  I  am  rich  enough  to 
give  my  nephew  the  house.  As  for  the  other 
—  Madame  shall  see." 

"  I  say,  though,  the  insurance  companies  "  — 
This  humble  and  uncompleted  sentence  was 
started  by  the  writer,  but  got  no  further  be- 
cause of  a  slim  hand  over  his  mouth  and  a 
sweet  but  peremptory  voice  in  his  ear  :  "  Hush, 
Maurice,  don't  you  spoil  things  !  " 

So  I  was  mute  and  looked  at  Madame  Guion. 
Her  face  was  a  study  for  a  tragedy.  I  got  it 
only  in  profile,  for  Tremblay  had  taken  her 
aside  and  was  whispering  to  her.  She  grew 
more  and  more  agitated,  while  he  seemed  in  a 
rude  way  to  be  trying  to  soothe  her.  The  two 
lovers  clung  to  each  other,  perhaps  feeling  their 
mutual  love  the  only  solid  thing  in  the'^torm. 
By  this  time  the  loiterers  about  the  ruins  had 
observed  us  and  gradually  drawn  nearer,  until 
a  circle  of  amiable  and  interested  eyes  watched 
our  motions.  "  My  neighbors,"  said  old  Xavier, 
"  approach,  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 
Upon  this  there  was  a  narrowing  of  the  circle, 
accompanied  by  the  emerging  of  a  number  of 


46  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

small  children,  whose  feet  twinkled  in  the  air 
as  they  fled,  to  return,  I  felt  certain,  with  ab- 
sent relatives.  "  Neighbors,"  said  the  village 
ogre,  in  his  strong,  harsh  voice,  "  attendez ; 
you  know  that  I  vowed  never  to  go  into  my 
new  house  until  I  should  marry  a  maiden  of 
twenty.  I  chose  Melanie  Guion.  She  prom- 
ised to  marry  me.     Is  it  not  so,  Melanie  ?  " 

"  Oway,  M'sieu',''  said  Melanie,  in  a  trem- 
bling voice. 

"  And  are  you  ready,  now,  to  keep  your 
promise  ?  " 

"  Oway,  M'sieu',''  the  girl  said  again,  though 
her  voice  was  fainter  and  she  turned  exceed- 
ingly pale. 

Old  Xavier  rolled  his  eyes  over  the  crowd  in 
sardonic  triumph.  *'  Eh  bien,  my  neighbors," 
said  he,  "  you  hear.  I  have  shown  you  that  I 
can  marry  the  best,  like  a  young  man.  Now  I 
will  show  you  something  else.  An  old  man 
who  marries  a  young  wife  is  a  fool,  n'est  ce  pas, 
Emile  Badeau  ?  " 

The  unhappy  Emile  shook  his  fists  in  help- 
less rage,  while  his  neighbors  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  Badeau's  connubial  trials  being  a 
matter  of  public  interest,  like  everybody  else's 
so  called  private  affairs,  in  St.  Alphonse. 

"  Eh  bien,"  continued  the  ogre,  ''  I  am  not 
that  fool.     Why  should  I  marry  now  ?     To  go 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA   HA  BAY.  47 

into  my  new  house  ?  View  it !  If  I  build  me 
another,  I  need  no  wife  to  let  me  enter  it. 
And  I  want  peace  in  my  old  age.  Alors, 
Ma'm'selle,  merci.  But  since  I  take  away 
your  husband,  I  give  you  one  in  my  place. 
Isadore,  my  nephew,  make  Melanie  my  niece 
instead  of  my  wife.  But  take  care,  you  will 
find  her  harder  to  drive  than  Bac  !  " 

Isadore  was  like  a  man  struck  by  lightning. 
His  eyes  glared,  his  knees  shook,  he  gasped  for 
breath.  But  Melanie  did  the  best  thing  possi- 
ble ;  she  ran  to  the  old  man  and  kissed  him. 

"Non,  non,"  she  sobbed,  "pas  mon  oncle, 
mon  pere ! " 

Doubtless  no  one  had  kissed  him  since 
Melanie  herself  was  a  child.  He  looked  at 
her  with  a  curious  expression,  almost  gentle. 
"  Oway,  mon  enfant,"  he  said ;  and  there  was 
even  a  rough  dignity  in  his  bearing  as  he  en- 
circled her  waist  with  his  arm  and  turned  to 
the  crowd.  "  And  now,  my  neighbors,  do  you 
hold  me  free  from  my  vow  ?  " 

The  villagers  returned  a  shrill  French  cheer, 
some  of  them  wept,  and  the  more  enterprising 
embraced  me  and  overwhelmed  Susan  with  a 
din  of  compliments.  Only  the  widow  Guion 
maintained  a  stern  and  bewildered  silence.  A 
bitterly  disappointed  woman,  she  was  turning 
to   go   her   way,  when    Melanie    ran    to    her. 


48  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  forgive  me,  maman  ?  "  cried 
she,  weeping  and  kissing  the  wrinkled  brown 
cheeks,  "  I  shall  be  so  happy  !  " 

"  Chut !  It  is  not  thou  that  I  blame,"  said 
the  widow,  "  but  he  is  a  slight  creature.  Bah, 
what  use  ?  It  was  the  will  of  God.  But  at 
least,  thou  wilt  be  rich,  he  has  said  it !  " 

Then  she  directed  a  long  glance  of  fierce 
interrogation  at  me.  "  You  may  trust  us, 
Madame,"  I  said. 

"  Cela  se  comprend,"  answered  she  inclining 
her  head  towards  Susan,  "  A'vair,  Madame." 

I  am  ashamed  to  confess  that  I  received  the 
applause  of  the  parish  quite  as  though  I  de- 
served it.  On  our  departure,  a  week  later, 
they  displayed  the  flag  at  the  hotel  and  fired 
off  an  ancient  cannon,  and  all  the  inhabitants 
who  were  not  congregated  about  the  cannon 
assembled  on  the  pier,  including  Isadore  (who 
wept  profusely),  Melanie,  and  old  Xavier  him- 
self. Every  man,  woman,  and  child  cheered 
with  enthusiasm.  Barring  our  fears  that  the 
cannon  might  explode,  it  was  a  proud  moment, 
especially  when  we  overheard  the  following 
conversation  between  two  of  our  countrymen. 

"  What  are  they  making  all  this  row 
about  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  know  ?  See  that  lady  and  gen- 
tleman?—  they're  Lord  and  Lady  Lansdowne, 
just  been  making  a  visit." 


THE   OGRE   OF  HA  HA  BAY.  49 

At  present,  Susan  and  I  are  home  in  New- 
York.  I  took  the  pains  to  inquire  about  the 
insurance  and  was  relieved  to  find  that  there 
was  none  on  the  house,  old  Xavier  having  once 
been  cheated  by  an  insurance  agent,  and  being 
the  mortal  foe  of  insurance  companies,  in  conse- 
quence. Susan  said  she  did  n't  think  that  it 
mattered,  anyhow.  The  best  of  women  have 
queer  notions  of  public  morality.  Susan  sent 
Melanie  a  great  box  of  wedding  finery.  In 
response,  we  have  received  a  long  letter.  Ma- 
dame Guion's  eyes  were  cured  a  month  ago. 
She  is  still  opposed  to  the  marriage,  but  Isa- 
dora hopes  everything  from  time.  Old  Xavier 
is  well  and  building  him  a  new  house. 


THE   BISHOP'S   VAGABOND. 

The  Bishop  was  walking  down  the  wide 
Aiken  street.  He  was  the  only  Bishop  in 
Aiken,  and  they  made  much  of  him,  accord- 
ingly, though  his  diocese  was  in  the  West, 
which  of  course  was  a  drawback. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  handsome,  kind 
face  under  his  shovel  hat ;  portly,  as  a  bishop 
should  be,  and  having  a  twinkle  of  humor  in 
his  eye.  He  dressed  well  and  soberly,  in  the 
decorous  habiliments  of  his  office.  "  So  Eng- 
lish," the  young  ladies  of  the  Highland  Park 
Hotel  used  to  whisper  to  each  other,  admiring 
him.  Perhaps  this  is  the  time  to  mention  that 
the  Bishop  was  a  widower. 

To-day  he  walked  at  a  gentle  pace,  repeat- 
edly lifting  his  hat  in  answer  to  a  multitude  of 
salutations  ;  for  it  was  a  bright  April  day,  and 
the  street  was  thronged.  There  was  the  half- 
humorous  incongruity  between  the  people  and 
the  place  always  visible  in  a  place  where  two 
thirds  of  the  population  are  a  mere  pleasant- 
weather  growth,  dependent  on  the  climate. 
Groups  of  Northerners  stood   in  the   red  and 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  61 

blue  and  green  door-ways  of  the  gay  little  shops, 
or  sauntered  past  them ;  easily  distinguished 
by  their  clothing  and  their  air  of  unaccustomed 
and  dissatisfied  languor.  One  could  pick  out 
at  a  glance  the  new-comers  just  up  from  Flor- 
ida ;  they  were  so  decorated  with  alligator- 
tooth  jewelry,  and  gazed  so  contemptuously  at 
the  oranges  and  bananas  in  the  windows.  The 
native  Southerners  were  equally  conspicuous, 
in  the  case  of  the  men,  from  their  careless  dress 
and  placid  demeanor.  A  plentiful  sprinkling 
of  black  and  yellow  skins  added  to  the  pictur- 
esque character  of  the  scene.  Over  it  all  hung 
a  certain  holiday  air,  the  reason  for  which  one 
presently  detected  to  be  an  almost  universal 
wearing  of  flowers,  —  bunches  of  roses,  clusters 
of  violets  or  trailing  arbutus,  or  twigs  of  yellow 
jasmine ;  while  barefooted  boys,  with  dusky 
faces  and  gleaming  teeth,  proffered  nosegays 
at  every  corner.  The  Aiken  nosegay  has  this 
peculiarity,  —  the  flowers  are  wedged  together 
with  unexampled  tightness.  Truly  enough 
may  the  little  venders  boast,  "  Dey  's  orful  lots 
o'  roses  in  dem,  mister ;  you  '11  fin'  w'en  you 
onties  'em."  No  one  of  the  pedestrians  ap- 
peared to  be  in  a  hurry ;  and  under  all  the  hol- 
iday air  of  flowers  there  was  a  pathetic  dispro- 
portion of  pale  and  weary  faces. 

But  if  they  did  not  hurry  on  the  sidewalk, 


62  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN 

there   was   plenty   of    motion   in    the   street ; 
horses  in  Aiken   being  always  urged  to  their 
full  speed,  —  which,  to  be  sure,  is  not  alarming. 
Now,  carriages  were  whirling  by  and  riders  gal- 
loping in  both  directions.     The  riders  were  of 
every  age,  sex,  and  condition :  pretty  girls  in 
jaunty  riding  habits,  young  men  with  polo  mal- 
lets, old  men  and  children,  and  grinning   ne- 
groes lashing  their  sorry  hacks  with  twigs.     Of 
the  carriages,  it  would  be  hard  to  tell  which 
was  the  more  noticeable,  the  smartness  of  the 
vehicles,  or  the   jaded   depression  of   the  thin 
beasts   that   pulled   them.      Where  Park  and 
Ashland   Avenues   meet   at    right   angles   the 
crowd  was   most  dense.     There,  on   one  side, 
one  sees  the  neat  little  post-office  and  the  pho- 
tographer's gallery,  and  off  in  the  distance  the 
white  pine  towers  of  the  hotel,  rising  out  of  its 
green  hills ;  on  the  other,  the  long  street  slowly 
climbs  the  hill,  through  shops  and  square  white 
houses  with  green  blinds,  set  back  in  luxuriant 
gardens.      At    this   corner   two   persons   were 
standing,  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman, 
both  watching  the  Bishop.     The  young  woman 
was  tall,  handsome,  and  —  always  an  attraction 
in   Aiken  —  evidently  not    an    invalid.      The 
erect  grace  of  her  slim  figure,  the  soft  and  vary- 
ing color  on  her  cheek,  the  light  in  her  beauti- 
ful brown   eyes, — all  were  the  unmistakable 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  53 

signs  of  health.  The  young  man  was  a  good- 
looking  little  fellow,  perfectly  dressed,  and  hav- 
ing an  expression  of  indolent  amusement  on  his 
delicate  features.  He  had  light  yellow  hair, 
cut  closely  enough  to  show  the  fine  outline  of 
his  head,  a  slight  mustache  waxed  at  the  ends, 
and  a  very  fair  complexion. 

The  young  woman  was  speaking.  "  Do  you 
see  to  whom  my  father  is  talking,  Mr.  Tal- 
boys?  "  said  she. 

"  Plainly,  he  has  picked  up  his  vagabond." 
"Demming?  Yes,  it  ^s  Demming." 
"Now  I  wonder,  do  you  know,"  said  the 
young  man,  "  what  induces  the  Bishop  to  waste 
his  time  on  such  hopeless  moral  trash  as  that." 
He  spoke  in  a  pleasant,  slow  voice  with  an 
English  accent. 

"  It  is  n't  hopeless  to  him,  I  suppose,"  she 
answered.  Her  voice  also  was  slow,  and  it  was 
singularly  sweet. 

*'I  think- it  must  be  his  sense  of  humor,"  he 
continued.  "  The  Bishop  loves  a  joke,  and 
Demming  is  a  droll  fellow.  He  is  a  sort  of 
grim  joke  himself,  you  know,  a  high-toned  gen- 
tleman who  lives  by  begging.  He  brings  his 
bag  to  the  hotels  every  day.  Of  course  you 
have  heard  him  talk,  Miss  Louise.  His  strong 
card  is  his  wife.  '  Th'  ole  'ooman  's  nigh  blin','  " 
—  here  Talboys  gave  a  very  good  imitation  of 


64  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

the  South  Carolina  local  drawl  —  "'an'  she's 
been  so  tenderly  raised  she  cyan't  live  'thout 
cyoffee  three  times  a  day  ! '  " 

"  I  have  heard  that  identical  speech,"  said 
Louise,  smiling  as  Talboys  knew  she  would 
smile  over  the  imitation.  "  He  gets  a  good  deal 
from  the  Northerners,  I  fancy." 

"  Enough  to  enable  him  to  be  a  pillar  of  the 
saloons,"  said  Talboys.  "  He  is  a  lavish  soul, 
and  treats  the  crowd  when  he  prospers  in  his 
profession.  Once  his  money  gave  out  before 
the  crowd's  thirst.  '  Never  min',  gen'lemen,' 
says  our  friend,  '  res'  easy.  I  see  the  Bishop 
agwine  up  the  street ;  I  '11  git  a  dollar  from 
him.     Yes,  wait ;  I  won't  be  gwine  long.'  " 

"And  he  got  the  money?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  believe  he  got  it  to  buy  quinine 
for  '  th'  ole  'ooman,'  who  was  down  with  the 
break-bone  fever.  He  is  like  Yorick,  '  a  fellow 
of  infinite  jest'  —  in  the  way  of  lying.  He 
talks  well,  too.  You  ought  to  hear  him  dis- 
course on  politics.  As  he  gets  most  of  his  rev- 
enue from  the  North,  he  is  kind  enough  to 
express  the  friendliest  sentiments.  '  I  wuz  op- 
posed to  the  wah's  bein' '  is  his  standard  speech, 
'  an'  now  I  'm  opposed  to  its  continnerin'.'  For 
all  that,  he  was  a  mild  kind  of  Ku-Klux." 

"He  did  it  for  money,  he  says,"  returned 
Louise.     "  The   funniest   thing   about   him   is 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S    VAGABOND.  55 

his  absolute  frankness  after  he  is  found  out 
in  any  trick.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  any 
sense  of  shame,  and  will  fairly  chuckle  in  my 
father's  face  as  he  is  owning  up  to  some  piece  of 
roguery." 

"  You  know  he  was  in  the  Confederate  army. 
Fought  well,  too,  I  'm  told.  What  does  he  do 
when  the  Northerners  are  gone  ?  Aiken  must 
be  a  pretty  bare  begging  ground." 

"  Oh,  he  has  a  wretched  little  cabin  out  in 
the  woods,"  said  Louise,  "  and  a  sweet-potato 
patch.     He  raises  sweet-potatoes  and  persim- 


mons " 


"  And  pigs,"  Talboys  interrupted.  "  I  saw 
some  particularly  lean  swine  grubbing  about 
in  the  sand  for  snakes.  They  feed  on  snakes, 
in  the  pine  barrens,  you  know,  which  serves 
two  purposes  :  kills  the  snakes  and  fills  the 
pigs.  Entertainment  for  man  and  beast,  don't 
you  see  ?  By  the  way,  talking  of  being  enter- 
tained, I  know  of  a  fine  old  Southern  manor- 
house  over  the  bridge." 

Louise  shook  her  head  incredulously.  "  I 
have  lost  faith  in  Southern  manor-houses.  Ever 
since  I  came  South  I  have  sought  them  vainly. 
All  the  way  from  Atlanta  I  risked  my  life, 
putting  my  head  out  of  the  car  windows,  to  see 
the  plantations.  At  every  scrubby-looking 
little  station  we  passed,  the  conductor  would 


56  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

say,  '  Mighty  nice  people  live  heah ;  great  deal 
of  wealth  heah  before  the  wah ! '  Then  I 
would  recklessly  put  my  head  out.  I  expected 
to  see  the  real  Southern  mansions  of  the  novel- 
ists, with  enormous  piazzas  and  Corinthian 
pillars  and  beautiful  avenues ;  and  the  white- 
washed cabins  of  the  negroes  in  the  middle 
distance ;  and  the  planter,  in  a  white  linen  suit 
and  a  wide  straw  hat,  sitting  on  the  piazza 
drinking  mint  juleps.  Well,  I  don't  really 
think  I  expected  the  planter,  but  I  did  hope 
for  the  house.  Nothing  of  the  kind.  All  I 
saw  was  a  moderate-sized  square  house,  with 
piazzas  and  a  flat  roof,  all  sadly  in  need  of 
paint.  Now,  I  'm  like  Betsey  Prig ;  '  I  don't 
believe  there  's  no  sich  person.'  It 's  a  myth, 
like  the  good  old  Southern  cooking." 

"  Oh,  they  do  exist,"  said  Talboys,  his  eyes 
brightening  over  this  long  speech,  delivered  in 
the  softest  voice  in  the  world.  "  There  are 
houses  in  Charleston  and  Beaufort  and  on  the 
Lower  Mississippi  that  suggest  the  novels ;  but, 
on  the  whole,  I  think  the  novelists  have  played 
us  false.  We  expect  to  find  the  ruins  of  luxury 
and  splendor  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  in  the 
South ;  but  in  point  of  fact  there  was  very 
little  luxury  about  Southern  life.  They  had 
plenty  of  service,  such  as  it  was,  and  plenty  of 
horses,  and   that  was  about  all;    their   other 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  57 

household  arrangements  were  painfully  primi- 
tive. All  the  same,  sha'n't  we  go  over  the 
bridge  ?  " 

Louise  assented,  and  they  turned  and  went 
their  way  in  the  opposite  direction. 

Meanwhile,  the  Bishop  and  his  vagabond 
were  talking  earnestly.  The  vagabond  seemed 
to  belong  to  the  class  known  as  "crackers." 
Poverty,  sickness,  and  laziness  were  written  in 
every  flatter  of  his  rags,  in  every  uncouth  curve 
or  angle  of  his  long,  gaunt  figure  and  sallow 
face.  A  mass  of  unkempt  iron-gray  hair  fell 
about  his  sharp  features,  further  hidden  by  a 
grizzly  beard.  His  black  frock  coat  had  once 
adorned  the  distinguished  and  ample  person  of 
a  Northern  senator ;  it  wrinkled  dismally  about 
Demming's  bones,  while  its  soiled  gentility  was 
a  queer  contrast  to  his  nether  garments  of  rag- 
ged butternut,  his  coarse  boots,  and  an  utterly 
disreputable  hat,  through  a  hole  of  which  a  tuft 
of  hair  had  made  its  way,  and  waved  plume- 
wise  in  the  wind.  Around  the  hat  was  wound 
a  strip  of  rusty  crape.  The  Bishop  quickly  no- 
ticed this  woeful  addition  to  the  man's  garb. 
He  asked  the  reason. 

"  She 's  done  gone,  Bishop,"  answered  Dem- 
ming,  winking  his  eyes  hard  before  rubbing 
them  with  a  grimy  knuckle ;  "  th'  ole  'ooman  's 
done  leff'  me  'lone  in  the  worl'.     It 's  an  orful 


58  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

'fliction  !  "  He  made  so  pitiful  a  figure,  stand- 
ing there  in  the  sandy  road,  the  wind  fluttering 
his  poor  token  of  mourning,  that  the  Bishop's 
kind  heart  was  stirred. 

"  I  am  trul}^  sorr}^,  Demming,"  said  he. 
"  Is  n't  this  very  sudden  ?  " 

"Laws,  yes,  Bishop,  powerful  suddint  an' 
onprecedented.  'Pears  's  if  I  cud  n't  git  myself 
to  b'lieve  it,  nohow.  Yes'day  ev'nin'  she  wuz 
peart 's  evah,  out  pickin'  pine  buds ;  an'  this 
mahnin'  she  woked  me  up,  an'  says  she,  '  I 
reckon  you  'd  better  fix  the  cyoffee  yo'self , 
Demming,  I  feel  so  cu'se,'  says  she.  An'  so  I 
did ;  an'  when  I  come  to  gin  it  ter  her,  oh, 
oh  Lordy,  Lordy  !  —  'scuse  me.  Bishop,  —  she 
wuz  cole  an'  dead  !  Doctor  cud  n't  do  nuthin', 
w'en  I  fotch  'im.  Rheutmatchism  o'  th'  heart, 
be  says..  It  wuz  turrible  suddint,  onyhow. 
'Minded  me  o'  them  thar  games  with  the  thim- 
ble, ye  know.  Bishop,  —  now  ye  see  it,  an' 
now  ye  don'  ;  yes,  's  quick  's  thet !  " 

The  Bishop  opened  his  eyes  at  the  compari- 
son ;  but  Demming  had  turned  away,  with  a 
quivering  lip,  to  bury  his  face  in  his  hands, 
and  the  Bishop  was  reproached  for  his  criticism 
of  the  other's  naif  phraseology.  Now,  to  be 
frank,  he  had  approached  Demming  prepared 
to  show  severity,  rather  than  s^nnpathy,  be- 
cause of  the  cracker's  last   flagrant  wrong-do- 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  59 

ing;  but  his  indignation,  righteous  though  it 
"was,  took  flight  before  grief.  Forgetting  judg- 
ment in  mercy,  he  proffered  all  the  consolations 
he  could  summon,  spiritual  and  material,  and 
ended  by  asking  Demming  if  he  had  made  any 
preparations  for  the  funeral. 

"  Thet  thar  's  w'at  I  'm  yere  for,"  replied  the 
man  mournfully.  "  You  know  jes  how  I  'm 
fixed.  Cyoffins  cost  a  heap;  an'  then  thar 's 
the  shroud,  an'  I  ain't  got  no  reg'lar  fun'al 
cloze,  an'  'pears  's  ef  't  'ud  be  a  conserlation  t' 
have  a  kerridge  or  two.  She  wuz  a  bawn  lady, 
Bishop ;  we  're  kin  ter  some  o'  the  real  aris- 
tookracy  o'  Carolina,  —  we  air,  fur  a  fac' ;  an 
I  'd  kin'  o'  like  ter  hev  her  ride  ter  own  fun'al, 
onyhow." 

"  Then  you  will  need  money  ?  " 

"Not  frum  you.  Bishop,  not  a  red  cent;  but 
if  you  uns  over  thar,"  jerking  his  thumb  in  the 
direction  of  the  white  pine  towers,  —  *'  if  you 
all  'd  kin'  o'  gin  me  a  small  sum,  an'  ef  you  'd 
jes  start  a  paper,  as  't  were,  an'  al-so  ef  you 
yo'self  'ud  hev  the  gret  kin'ness  ter  come  out 
an'  conduc'  the  fun'al  obskesies,  it  'ud  gratify 
the  co'pse  powerful.  Mistress  Demming  '11  be 
entered  ^  then  like  a  bawn  lady.  Yes,  sir,  thet 
thar,  an'  no  mo',  's  w'at  I  'm  emboldened  ter  ax 
frum  you." 

1  It  is  supposed  that  Mr.  Demming  intended  to  say  "  in- 
terred." 


60  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

The  Bishop  reflected.  "  Demming,"  said  he 
gravely,  "  I  will  try  to  help  you.  You  have  no 
objection,  I  suppose,  to  our  buying  the  cofl&n 
and  other  things  needed.  We  will  pay  the 
bills." 

Demming's  dejected  bearing  grew  a  shade 
more  sombre  :  he  waved  his  hand,  a  gesture 
very  common  with  him,  and  usually  denoting 
affable  approval ;  now  it  meant  gloomy  assent. 
"  No  objection  't  all.  Bishop,"  he  said.  "  I 
knows  my  weakness,  though  I  don'  feel  now 
like  I  'd  evah  want  ter  go  on  no  carousements 
no  mo'.  I  'm  'bliged  ter  you  uns  jes  the  same. 
An'  you  won't  forget  'bout  the  cloze  ?  I  've 
been  a  right  good  f rien'  to  th'  Norf  in  Aiken, 
an'  I  hope  the  Norf  '11  stan'  by  me  in  the  hour 
o'  trubbel.  Now,  Bishop,  I  '11  be  gwine  'long. 
You  '11  fin'  me  at  the  cyoffin  sto'.  Mose  Barn- 
well —  he 's  a  mighty  decent  cullud  man  —  lives 
nigh  me ;  he  's  gwine  fur  ter  len'  me  his  cyart 
ter  tek  the  cyoffin  home.  Mahnin',  Bishop,  an' 
min',  I  don'  want  money  outen  you.  No,  sir,  I 
do  not !  " 

Then,  waving  his  hand  at  his  hat,  the  cracker 
slouched  away.  The  Bishop  had  a  busy  morn- 
ing. He  went  from  friend  to  friend,  until  the 
needed  sum  was  collected.  Nor  did  money  sat- 
isfy him  :  he  gathered  together  a  suit  of  clothes 
from  the  tallest  Northerners  of  benevolent  iui- 


THE  BISHOP'S    VAGABOND.  61 

pulses.  Talboys  was  too  short  to  be  a  donor  of 
clothes,  but  he  gave  more  money  than  all  the 
others  united,  —  a  munificence  that  rebuked 
the  Bishop,  for  he  had  sought  the  young  Bos- 
ton man  last  of  all  and  reluctantly ;  somehow, 
he  could  not  feel  acquainted  with  him,  notwith- 
standing many  meetings  in  many  places.  More- 
over, he  held  him  in  slight  esteem,  as  an  idle 
fellow  who  did  little  good  with  a  great  fortune. 
In  his  gratitude  he  became  expansive  :  told  Tal- 
boys about  his  acquaintance  with  the  cracker, 
described  his  experiences  and  perplexities,  and 
at  last  invited  the  young  man  to  go  to  the  fu- 
neral, the  next  day.  Talboys  was  delighted  to 
accept  the  invitation  ;  yet  it  could  not  be  said 
that  he  was  often  delighted.  But  he  admired 
the  Bishop,  and,  even  more  warmly,  he  admired 
the  Bishop's  daughter  ;  hence  he  caught  at  any 
opportunity  to  show  his  friendliness.  Martin 
Talboys  was  never  enthusiastic,  and  at  times 
his  views  of  life  might  be  called  cynical ;  but  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  infer,  therefore,  that,  as 
is  common  enough,  he,  having  a  mean  opinion 
of  other  people,  struck  a  balance  with  a  very 
high  one  of  himself.  In  truth,  Martin  was  too 
modest  for  his  own  peace  of  mind.  For  years 
he  had  contrived  to  meet  Louise,  by  accident, 
almost  everywhere  she  went.  She  traveled  a 
good  deal,  and  her  image  was  relieved  against 


62  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

a  variety  of  backgrounds.  It  seemed  to  him 
fairer  in  each  new  picture.  His  love  for  the 
Bishop's  daughter  grew  more  and  more  absorb- 
ing ;  but  at  the  same  time  he  became  less  and 
less  sanguine  that  she  would  ever  care  for  him. 
Although  he  was  not  enthusiastic,  he  was  quite 
capable  of  feeling  deeply  ;  and  he  had  begun  to 
suspect  that  he  was  capable  of  suffering.  Yet 
he  could  not  force  himself  to  decide  his  fate  by 
speaking.  It  was  not  that  Louise  disliked  him  : 
on  the  contrary,  she  avowed  a  sincere  liking ; 
she  always  hailed  his  coming  with  pleasure, 
telling  him  frankly  that  no  one  amused  her  as 
did  he.  There,  alas,  was  the  hopeless  part  of 
it ;  he  used  to  say  bitterly  to  himself  that  he 
was  n't  a  man,  a  lover,  to  her ;  he  was  a  mimic, 
a  genteel  clown,  an  errand  boy,  never  out  of 
temper  with  his  work  ;  in  short,  she  did  not 
take  him  seriously  at  all.  He  knew  the  man- 
ner of  man  she  did  take  seriously,  —  a  man  of 
action,  who  had  done  something  in  the  world. 
Once  she  told  Talboys  that  he  was  a  "  capital 
observer."  She  made  the  remark  as  a  compli- 
ment, but  it  stung  him  to  the  quick ;  he  real- 
ized that  she  thought  of  him  only  as  an  ob- 
server. "When  a  trifling  but  obstinate  throat 
complaint  brought  the  Bishop  to  Aiken,  Tal- 
boys felt  a  great  longing  to  win  his  approval. 
Surely,  Louise,  who  judged  all  men  by  her  fa- 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  63 

ther's  standard,  must  be  influenced  by  her  fa- 
ther's favor.  Unhappily,  the  Bishop  had  never, 
as  the  phrase  goes,  "  taken "  to  Talboys,  nor 
did  he  seem  more  inclined  to  take  to  him  now, 
and  Martin  was  too  modest  to  persist  in  unwel- 
come attentions.  But  he  greeted  the  present 
opportunity  all  the  more  warmly. 

In  the  morning,  the  three  —  the  Bishop, 
Louise,  and  Talboys  —  drove  to  the  cracker's 
cabin.  The  day  was  perfect,  one  of  those  Ai- 
ken days,  so  fair  that  even  invalids  find  no  com- 
plaint in  their  wearisome  list  to  bring  against 
them  and  can  but  sigh  over  each,  "  Ah,  if  all 
days  might  only  be  like  this  !  "  Hardly  a  cloud, 
marred  the  tender  blue  of  the  sky.  The  air 
was  divinely  soft.  They  drove  through  the 
woods,  and  the  ground  was  carpeted  with  dry 
pine  spikes,  whereon  their  horses'  hoofs  made  a 
dull  and  pleasant  sound.  A  multitude  of  vio- 
lets grew  in  the  little  spaces  among  the  trees. 
Yellow  jasmine  flecked  the  roadside  shade  with 
gold,  its  fragrance  blending  with  the  keen  odors 
of  the  pine.  If  they  looked  up,  they  saw  the 
pine  tops  etched  upon  the  sky,  and  a  solemn, 
ceaseless  murmur  beat  its  organ-like  waves 
through  all  their  talk.  The  Bishop  had  put 
on  his  clerical  robes  :  he  sat  on  the  back  seat 
of  the  carriage,  a  superb  figure,  with  his  noble 
head  and  imposing  mien.    As  they  rolled  along, 


64  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

the  Bishop  talked.  He  spoke  of  death.  He 
spoke  not  as  a  priest,  but  as  a  man,  dwelling  on 
the  mystery  of  death,  bringing  up  those  specu- 
lations with  which  from  the  beginning  men 
have  striven  to  light  the  eternal  darkness. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  the  mystery,"  said  the 
Bishop,  *'  which  causes  the  unreality  of  death, 
its  perpetual  surprise.  Now,  behind  my  cer- 
tainty of  this  poor  woman's  death  I  have  a  lurk- 
ing expectation  of  seeing  her  standing  in  the 
doorway,  her  old  clay  pipe  in  her  mouth.  I 
can't  help  it." 

"  Though  she  was  a  '  bawn  lady,'  she  smoked, 
did  she  ?  "  said  Talboys.  Then  he  felt  the  re- 
mark to  be  hopelessly  below  the  level  of  the 
conversation,  and  made  haste  to  add,  "  I  sup- 
pose it  was  a  consolation  to  her ;  she  had  a 
pretty  hard  life,  I  fancy." 

"  Awfully,"  said  Louise.  "  She  was  nearly 
blind,  poor  woman,  yet  I  think  she  did  what- 
ever work  was  done.  I  have  often  seen  her 
hoeing.  I  believe  that  Demming  was  always 
good  to  her,  though.  He  is  a  most  amiable 
creature." 

"Singular  how  a  woman  will  bear  any 
amount  of  laziness,  actual  worthlessness,  in- 
deed, in  a  man  who  is  good  to  her,"  the  Bishop 
remarked. 

"  Beautiful  trait  in  her  character,"  said  Tal- 
boys.    "  Where  should  we  be  without  it?  " 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  65 

"  Have  the  Demmings  never  had  any  chil- 
dren ? "  asked  Louise,  who  did  not  like  the 
turn  the  talk  was  taking. 

"  Yes,  one,"  the  Bishop  answered,  "  a  little 
girl.  She  died  three  years  ago.  Demming 
was  devotedly  attached  to  her.  He  can't  talk 
of  her  now  without  the  tears  coming  into  his 
eyes.  He  really,"  said  the  Bishop  meditatively, 
"seemed  more  affected  when  he  told  me  about 
her  death  than  he  was  yesterday.  She  died 
of  some  kind  of  low  fever,  and  was  ill  a  long 
time.  He  used  to  walk  up  and  down  the  little 
path  through  the  woods,  holding  her  in  his 
arms.  She  would  wake  up  in  the  night  and 
cry,  and  he  would  wrap  her  in  an  old  army 
blanket,  and  pace  in  front  of  the  house  for 
hours.  Often  the  teamsters  driving  into  town 
at  break  of  day,  with  their  loads  of  wood, 
would  come  on  him  thus,  walking  and  talking 
to  the  child,  with  the  little  thin  face  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  ragged  blanket  trailing  on 
the  ground.  Ah,  Demming  is  not  altogether 
abandoned,  he  has  an  affectionate  heart ! " 

Neither  of  his  listeners  made  any  response : 
Talboys,  because  of  his  slender  faith  in  Dem- 
ming ;  Louise,  because  she  was  thinking  that 
if  the  Aiken  laundresses  were  intrusted  with 
her  father's  lawn  many  more  times  there  would 
be  nothing  left  to  darn.    They  went  on  silently, 


m  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

therefore,  until  the  Bishop  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
''  Here  we  are !  " 

The  negro  driver,  with  the  agility  of  a  coun- 
try coachman,  had  already  sprung  to  the  ground, 
and  was  holding  the  carriage  door  open. 

Before  them  lay  a  small  cleared  tract  of 
land,  where  a  pleasant  greenness  of  young  po- 
tato vines  hid  the  sand.  In  the  centre  was  a 
tumble-down  cabin,  with  a  mud  chimney  on  the 
outside.  The  one  window  had  no  sash,  and  its 
rude  shutter  hung  precariously  by  a  single 
leathern  hinge.  The  door  was  open,  revealing 
that  the  interior  was  papered  with  newspapers. 
Three  or  four  yelping  curs  seemed  to  be  all  the 
furniture. 

There  was  nothing  extraordinary  in  the  pic- 
ture ;  one  could  see  fifty  such  cabins,  in  a  ra- 
dius of  half  a  mile.  Nor  was  there  anything 
of  mark  in  the  appearance  of  Demming  himself, 
dressed  exactly  as  he  was  the  day  before,  and 
rubbing  his  eyes  in  the  doorway.  But  behind 
him  !  The  coachman's  under  jaw  dropped  be- 
neath the  weight  of  a  loud  *'  'Fo'  de  Lawd  ! " 
The  Bishop's  benignant  countenance  was  sud- 
denly crimsoned.  Talboys  and  Louise  looked 
at  each  other,  and  bit  their  lips.  It  was  only 
a  woman,  —  a  tall,  thin,  bent  woman  in  a 
shabby  print  gown,  with  a  faded  sunbonnet 
pushed  back  from  her  gray  head  and  a  common 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  67 

clay  pipe  between  her  lips.  Probably  in  her 
youth  she  had  been  a  pretty  woman,  and  the 
worn  features  and  dim  eyes  still  retained  some- 
thing engaging  in  their  expression  of  timid 
good-will. 

"  Won'  you  all  step  in?"  she  said,  advanc- 
ing. 

"Yes,  yes,"  added  Demming,  inclining  his 
body  and  waving  both  hands  with  magnificent 
courtesy ;  "  alight,  gentlemen,  alight !  I  'm 
sorry  I  ain't  no  staggah  juice  to  offah  ye,  but 
yo'  right  welcome  to  sweet-'taters  an'  pussim- 
mon  beah,  w'ich  's  all  "  — 

"  Demming,"  said  the  Bishop  sternly,  "what 
does  this  mean  ?  I  came  to  bury  Mrs.  Dem- 
ming, and  —  and  here  she  is  !  " 

"  Burry  me  I  "  exclaimed  the  woman.  "  Why, 
I  ain't  dead  !  " 

Demming  rubbed  his  hands,  his  face  wearing 
an  indescribable  expression  of  mingled  embar- 
rassment, contrition,  and  bland  insinuation. 
"Well,  yes.  Bishop,  yere  she  is,  an'  no  mis- 
take !  Nuthin'  more  'n  a  swond,  you  unner- 
stan'.  I  'lowed  ter  notify  you  uns  this  mahnin', 
but  fac'  is  I  wuz  so  decomposed,  fin'in'  her 
traipsin'  'bout  in  the  gyardin  an'  you  all  'xpect- 
in'  a  fun'al,  thet  I  jes  hed  ter  brace  up ;  an'  fac' 
is  I  braced  up  too  much,  an'  ovahslep.  I  'm 
powerful  sorry,  an'  I  don'  blame  you  uns  ef  you 
do  feel  mad  !  " 


68  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

The  Bishop  flung  off  his  robes  in  haste  and 
walked  to  the  carriage,  where  he  bundled  them 
in  with  scant  regard  for  their  crispness. 

"  Never  heard  of  such  a  thing  !  "  said  Louise, 
that  being  her  invariable  formula  for  occasions 
demanding  expression  before  she  was  prepared 
to  commit  herself.  By  this  time  a  glimmering 
notion  of  the  state  of  things  had  reached  the 
coachman's  brain,  and  he  was  in  an  ecstasy. 
Talboys  thought  it  fitting  to  speak.  He  turned 
to  Mrs.  Demming,  who  was  looking  from  one 
to  another  of  the  group,  in  a  scared  way. 

"  Were  you  in  a  swoon  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh,  laAvs  !  "  cried  the  poor  woman.  "  Oh, 
Demming,  what  hev  you  done  gone  an'  done 
now  ?  Gentlemen,  he  did  n't  mean  no  harm, 
I  'm  suah  !  " 

"  You  were  not^  then  ?  "  said  Talboys. 

"  Leave  her  'lone,  Gunnel,"  Demming  said 
quietly.  "Don'  yo'  see  she  cyan't  stan'  no 
sech  racket?  'Sence  yo'  so  mighty  peart  'bout 
it,  no,  she  wahn't,  an'  thet  thar  's  the  truf.  I 
jes  done  it  fur  ter  raise  money.  It  was  this  a 
way.  Thet  thar  mahnin',  w'ile  I  wuz  a-consid- 
erin'  an'  a-contemplatin'  right  smart  how  I 
wuz  evah  to  git  a  few  dollars,  I  seen  Mose 
Barnwell  gwine  'long,  —  yo'  know  Mose  Barn- 
well," turning  in  an  affable,  conversational  way 
to  the  grinning  negro,  —  "  an'  he  *d  a  string  o' 


THE  BISHOP'S  VAGABOND.  69 

crape  'roun'  his  hat  'cause  he  'd  jes  done  loss' 
his  wife,  an'  he  wuz  purportin'  ter  git  a  cyoffin. 
So  I  'lowed  I  'd  git  a  cyoffin  fur  him  cheap. 
An'  I  reckon,"  said  Demming,  smiling  gra- 
ciously on  his  delighted  black  auditor,  —  "I 
reckon  I  done  it." 

"  Demming,"  cried  the  Bishop,  with  some 
heat,  "  this  exceeds  patience  "  — 

"I  know.  Bishop,"  answered  the  vagabond 
meekly,  —  "I  know  it.  I  wuz  tempted  an'  I 
fell,  as  you  talked  'bout  in  yo'  sermon.  It 's 
orful  how  I  kin  do  sech  things !  " 

"  And  those  chickens,  too !  "  ejaculated  the 
Bishop,  with  rising  wrath,  as  new  causes  rushed 
to  his  remembrance.  "  You  stole  chickens,  — 
Judge  Eldridge's  chickens ;  you  who  pretend 
to  be  such  a  stanch  friend  of  the  North  "  — 

"  Chickens  !  "  screamed  the  woman.  "  Oh, 
Lordy  !  Oh,  he  nevah  done  thet  afo'e  !  He  '11 
be  took  to  jail !  Oh,  Demming,  how  cud  ye  ? 
Stealin'  chickens,  jes  like  a  low-down,  no- 
'cyount  niggah !  "  Sobs  choked  her  voice,  and 
tears  of  fright  and  shame  were  streaming  down 
her  hollow  cheeks. 

Demming  looked  disconcerted.  "  Now,  look 
a-yere  ! "  said  he,  sinking  his  voice  reproach- 
fully ;  "  w'at  wuz  the  use  o'  bringin'  thet  thar 
up  befo'  th'  ole  'ooman  ?  She  don'  know  nuth- 
in'  on  it,  you  miners  tan',  an'  why  mus'  you  rila 


70  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

'er  up  fur  ?  I  'd  not  a  thought  it  o'  you, 
Bishop,  thet  I  wud  n't.  Now,  Alwynda," 
turning  to  the  weeping  woman,  who  was  wip- 
ing her  eyes  with  the  cape  of  her  sunbonnet, 
"jes  you  dry  up  an'  stop  yo'  bellerin',  an'  I 
'splain  it  all  in  a  holy  minnit.  Thar,  thar," 
patting  her  on  the  shoulder,  *'  't  ain't  nuthin' 
ter  cry  'bout ;  't  ain't  no  fault  o'  yourn,  ony- 
how.  'Fac'  is,  gen'lemen,  't  wuz  all  'long  o' 
my  'preciation  o'  the  Bishop.  I  'm  a  'Piscopal, 
like  yo'self,  Bishop,  an'  I  tole  Samson  Mobley 
thet  you  overlaid  all  the  preachers  yere  fur 
goodness  an'  shortness  bofe.  An'  he  'lowed, 
'  Mebbe  he  may  fur  goodness  ;  I  ain't  no  jedge,' 
says  he  ;  '  but  fo'  shortness,  we  've  a  feller  down 
at  the  Baptis'  kin  beat  'im  outen  sight.  They 
've  jes  'gin  up  sleepin'  down  thar,'  says  he, 
'  'cause  't  ain't  worth  w'ile.'  So  we  tried  it  on, 
you  unnerstand,  'cause  thet  riled  me,  an'  I  jes 
bet  on  it,  I  did  ;  an'  we  tried  it  on,  —  you  in 
the  mahnin'  and  him  in  the  ev'nin'.  An'  laws, 
ef  did  n't  so  happen  as  how  you  'd  a  powerful 
flow  o'  speech  !  'T  wuz  'mazin'  edifyin',  but  't 
los'  me  the  bet,  you  unnerstan' ;  an'  onct  los'  I 
bed  ter  pay  ;  an'  not  havin'  ary  chick  o'  my 
own  I  had  ter  confiscate  some  frum  th'  gineral 
public,  an'  I  tuk  'em  'thout  distinction  o'  party 
frum  the  handiest  coop  in  the  Baptis'  dernomi- 
nation.     I  kin'  o'  hankered  arter  Baptis'  chick- 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  71 

UDS,  somehow,  so  's  ter  git  even,  like.  Now, 
Bishop,  I  jes  leaves  ter  you  uns,  cud  I  go  back 
on  a  debt  o'  honah,  like  thet?  " 

"  Honor  ! "  repeated  the  Bishop  scornfully. 

Talboys  interposed  again :  "  We  appear  to 
be  sold.  Bishop  ;  don't  you  think  we  had  better 
get  out  of  this  before  the  hearse  comes  ?  " 

Demming  waved  his  hand  at  Talboys,  saying 
in  his  smoothest  tones,  ''  Ef  you  meet  it.  Gun- 
nel, p'raps  you  'd  kin'ly  tell  'em  ter  go  on  ter 
Mose  Barnwell's.     He  's  ready  an'  waitin'." 

"Demming" — began  the  Bishop,  but  he 
did  not  finish  the  sentence :  instead,  he  lifted 
his  hat  to  Mrs.  Demming,  with  his  habitual 
stately  courtesy,  and  moved  in  a  slow  and  dig- 
nified manner  to  the  carriage.  Louise  followed, 
only  stopping  to  say  to  the  still  weeping  woman, 
"  He  is  in  no  danger  from  us  ;  but  this  trick 
was  a  poor  return  for  my  father's  kindness." 

Demming  had  been  rubbing  his  right  eye- 
brow obliquely  with  his  hand,  thus  making  a 
shield  behind  which  he  winked  at  the  coach- 
man in  a  friendly  and  humorous  manner ;  at 
Louise's  words,  his  hand  fell  and  his  face 
changed  quickly.  "  Don'  say  thet,  miss,"  he 
said,  a  ring  of  real  emotion  in  his  voice.  "I 
know  I  'm  purty  po'  pickin's,  but  I  ain't  on- 
grateful.  Yo'  pa  will  remember  I  wyould  n't 
tek  no  money  frum  him!^^ 


72  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  I  would  have  given  fifty  dollars,"  cried  the 
Bishop,  "  rather  than  have  had  this  —  this 
scandalous  fraud !     Drive  on  !  " 

They  drove  away.  The  last  they  saw  of 
Demming  he  was  blandly  waving  his  hand. 

The  drive  back  from  the  house  so  unexpect- 
edly disclosed  as  not  a  house  of  mourning  was 
somewhat  silent.  The  Bishop  was  the  first  to 
speak.  "  I  shall  insist  upon  returning  every 
cent  of  that  money,"  he  said. 

"  I  assure  you  none  of  us  will  take  it,"  Tal- 
boys  answered ;  "  and  really,  you  know,  the 
sell  was  quite  worth  the  money." 

"  And  you  did  see  her,  after  all,"  said  Louise 
dryly,  "  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  her  old 
clay  pipe  in  her  mouth." 

The  Bishop  smiled,  but  he  sighed,  too. 
"  Well,  well,  I  ought  not  to  have  lost  my  tem- 
per. But  I  am  disappointed  in  Demming.  I 
thought  I  had  won  his  affection,  and  I  hoped 
through  his  affection  to  reach  his  conscience. 
I  suppose  I  deceived  myself." 

"  I  fear  he  has  n't  any  conscience  to  reach," 
Louise  observed. 

"  I  agree  with  Miss  Louise,"  said  Talboys. 
"  You  see,  Demming  is  a  cracker." 

"  Ah  !  the  cracker  has  his  virtues,"  observed 
the  Bishop ;  "not  the  cardinal  New  England 
virtues  of   thrift  and   cleanliness   and  energy; 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  73 

but  he  has  his  own.  He  is  as  hospitable  as  an 
Arab,  brave,  faithful,  and  honest,  and  full  of 
generosity  and  kindness." 

"  All  the  same,  he  is  n't  half  civilized,"  said 
Talboys,  "  and  as  ignorant  morally  as  any  be- 
ing you  can  pick  up.  He  does  n't  steal  or  lie 
much,  I  grant  you,  but  he  smashes  all  the  other 
commandments  to  flinders.  He  kills  when  he 
thinks  he  has  been  insulted,  and  he  has  n't  the 
feeblest  scruples  about  changing  his  old  wife 
for  a  new  one  whenever  he  feels  like  it,  with- 
out any  nonsense  of  divorce.  The  women  are 
just  as  bad  as  the  men.  But  Demming  is  not 
only  a  cracker ;  he  is  a  cracker  spoiled  by  the 
tourists.  We  have  despoiled  him  of  his  sim- 
plicity. He  has  n't  learned  any  good  of  us,  — 
that  goes  without  saying,  —  but  he  has  learned 
no  end  of  Yankee  tricks.  Do  you  suppose  that 
if  left  to  himself  he  would  ever  have  been  up 
to  this  morning's  performance?  Oh,  we've 
polished  his  wicked  wits  for  him  !  Even  his 
dialect  is  no  longer  pure  South  Carolinian ;  it 
is  corrupted  by  Northern  slang.  We  have 
ruined  his  religious  principles,  too.  The  crack- 
ers have  n't  much  of  any  morality,  but  they  are 
very  religious,  —  all  Southerners  are.  But 
Demming  is  an  unconscious  Agnostic.  '  I  tell 
ye,'  he  says  to  the  saloon  theologians,  '  thar 
ain't  no  tellin'.     'Ligion  's  a  heap  like  jumpin' 


74  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN.      ' 

a'ter  a  waggin  in  th'  dark :  yo'  mo'  'n  likely 
ter  Ian'  on  nuthin' ! '  And  you  have  seen  for 
yourselves  that  he  has  lost  the  cracker  honesty." 

"  At  least,"  said  Louise,  "  he  has  the  cracker 
hospitality  left ;  he  made  us  welcome  to  all  he 
had." 

"  And  did  you  notice,"  said  the  Bishop,  who 
had  quite  smoothed  his  ruffled  brow  by  this 
time,  —  "  did  you  notice  the  consideration,  ten- 
derness almost,  that  he  showed  to  his  wife? 
Demming  has  his  redeeming  qualities,  believe 
me,  Mr.  Talboys." 

"  I  see  that  you  don't  mean  to  give  him  up," 
said  Talboys,  smiling;  but  he  did  not  pursue 
the  subject. 

For  several  days  Demming  kept  away  from 
Aiken.  When  he  did  appear  he  rather  avoided 
the  Bishop.  He  bore  the  jokes  and  satirical 
congratulations  of  his  companions  with  his  us- 
ual equanimity ;  but  he  utterly  declined  to 
gratify  public  curiosity  either  at  the  saloon  or 
the  grocery.  One  morning  he  met  the  Bishop. 
They  walked  a  long  way  together,  and  it  was 
observed  that  they  seemed  to  be  on  most  cor- 
dial terms.  This  happened  on  Tuesday.  Fri- 
day morning  Demming  came  to  the  Bishop  in 
high  spirits.  He  showed  a  letter  from  a  cousin 
in  Charleston,  a  very  old  man,  with  no  near 
kindred    and   a   comfortable    property.      This 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  75 

cousin,  repenting  of  an  old  injustice  to  Dem- 
ming's  mother,  had  bethought  him  of  Dem- 
ming,  his  nearest  relative  ;  and  sent  for  him, 
inclosing  money  to  pay  all  expenses.  *'  He  is 
right  feeble,"  said  Demming,  with  a  cheerful 
accent  not  according  with  his  mournful  words, 
*'  an'  wants  ter  see  me  onct  fo'  he  departs. 
Reckon  he  means  ter  do  well  by  me." 

The  Bishop's  hopeful  soul  saw  a  chance  for 
the  cracker's  reclamation.  So  he  spoke  sol- 
emnly to  him,  warning  him  against  periling 
his  future  by  relapsing  into  his  old  courses  in 
Charleston.  Nothing  could  exceed  Demming's 
bland  humility.  He  filled  every  available 
pause  in  the  exhortation  with  "  Thet  's  so," 
and  "  Shoo  's  yo'  bawn  !  "  and  answered,  "  I  'm 
gwine  ter  be  's  keerful  's  a  ole  coon  thet 's  jes 
got  shet  o'  the  dogs.  You  nevah  said  truer 
words  than  them  thar,  an'  don'  you  forget  it! 
I  'm  gwine  ter  buy  mo'  Ian',  an'  raise  hogs,  an' 
keep  th'  ole  'ooman  like  a  lady.  Don'  ye  be 
'feard  o'  me  gwine  on  no'  mo'  tears.  No,  sir, 
none  o'  thet  in  mine.  'T  wuz  ony  'cause  I  wuz 
so  low  in  my  min'  I  evah  done  it,  onyhow. 
Now,  I  'm  gwine  ter  be  *s  sober  's  a  owl !  " 

Notwithstanding  these  and  similar  protes- 
tations, hardly  an  hour  was  gone  before  Dem- 
ming was  the  glory  of  the  saloon,  haranguing 
the  crowd  on  his  favorite  topic,  the  Bishop's 


76  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

virtues.  "  High-toned  gen'leman,  bes'  man  in 
the  worl',  an'  nobody's  fool,  neither.  I  'm 
proud  to  call  him  my  frien',  an'  Aiken's  put  in 
its  bes'  licks  w'en  it  cured  him.  Gen'lemen,  he 
'vised  me  ter  fight  shy  o'  you  all.  I  reckon  as 
how  I  mought  be  better  off  ef  I  'd  alius  a  fol- 
lered  his  ammonitions.  Walk  up,  gen'lemen, 
an'  drink  his  health  !     My  'xpens'." 

The  sequel  to  such  toasts  may  readily  be  im- 
agined. By  six  o'clock,  penniless  and  tipsy, 
Demming  was  apologizing  to  the  Bishop  on  the 
hotel  piazza.  He  had  the  grace  to  seem 
ashamed  of  himself.  "  Wust  o'  't  is  flingin' 
away  all  thet  money;  but  I  felt  kinder  like 
makin'  everybody  feel  good,  an'  I  set  'em  up. 
An'  't  'appened,  somehow,  they  wuz  a  right 
smart  o'  people  in,  jes  thet  thar  minit, — they 
gen'rally  is  a  right  smart  o'  people  in  when  a 
feller  sets  'em  up !  an'  they  wuz  powerful  dry, 
—  they  gen'rally  is  dry,  then  ;  an'  the  long  an' 
short  o'  't  is,  they  cleaned  me  out.  An'  now, 
Bishop,  I  jes  feel  nashuated  with  myself.  Suah 
's  yo'  bawn.  Bishop,  I  'm  gwine  ter  reform. 
'  Stop  short,  an'  nevah  go  on  again,'  like  thet 
thar  clock  in  the  song.  I  am,  fur  a  fac',  sir. 
I  'm  repentin'  to  a  s'prisin'  extent." 

"  I  certainly  should  be  surprised  if  you  ivere 
repentant,"  the  Bishop  said,  dryly  ;  then,  after 
a  pause,  "  Well,  Demming,  I  will  help  you  this 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  77 

once  again.  I  will  buy  you  a  ticket  to  Charles- 
ton." 

Some  one  had  come  up  to  the  couple  unper- 
ceived  ;  this  person  spoke  quickly  :  "  Please  let 
me  do  that,  Bishop.  Demming  has  afforded 
me  enough  entertainment  for  that." 

"  You  don'  think  no  gret  shakes  o'  me,  do 
you,  Gunnel?"  said  Demming,  looking  at  Tal- 
boys  half  humorously,  yet  with  a  shade  of  some- 
thing else  in  his  expression.  "  You  poke  fun 
at  me  all  the  time.  Well,  pleases  you,  an'  don' 
hurt  me,  I  reckon.  Mahnin',  Bishop ;  mahnin', 
Gunnel.  I'll  be  at  th'  deppo."  He  waved 
his  hand  and  shambled  away.  Both  men  looked 
after  him. 

"  I  will  see  that  he  gets  off,"  said  Talboys. 
"I  leave  Aiken,  myself,  in  the  morning." 

"  Leave  Aiken  ?  "  the  Bishop  repeated.  "But 
you  will  return  ?  " 

"  I  don't  expect  to." 

"  Why,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  Mr.  Talboys, 
—  truly  sorry."  The  Bishop  took  the  young 
man's  hand  and  pressed  it.  "  I  am  just  begin- 
ning to  know  you  ;  I  may  say,  to  like  you,  if 
you  will  permit  the  expression.  Won't  you 
walk  in  with  me  now,  and  say  good-by  to  my 
daughter  ?  " 

"  Thanks,  very  much,  but  I  have  already 
made  my  adieux  to  Miss  Louise." 


78  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"Ah,  yes,  certainly,"  said  the  Bishop,  ab- 
sently. 

He  was  an  absorbed  clergyman  ;  but  he  had 
sharp  enough  eyes,  did  he  choose  to  use  them ; 
and  Talboys'  reddening  cheeks  told  him  a  great 
deal.  It  cannot  be  said  that  he  was  sorry  be- 
cause his  daughter  had  not  looked  kindly  on 
this  worldly  and  cynical  young  man's  affection  ; 
but  he  was  certainly  sorry  for  the  young  man 
himself,  and  his  parting  grasp  of  the  hand  was 
warmer  than  it  would  have  been  but  for  that 
fleeting  blush. 

"  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow  !  "  soliloquized  the 
Bishop,  when,  after  a  few  cordial  words,  they 
had  parted.  "  He  looks  as  though  it  had  hurt 
him.  I  suppose  that  is  the  way  we  all  take  it. 
Well,  time  cures  us :  but  it  would  scarcely  do 
to  tell  him  that,  or  how  much  harder  it  is  to 
win  a  woman,  find  how  precious  she  is,  and  then 
to  lose  her.  Ah,  well,  time  helps  even  that. 
'  For  the  strong  years  conquer  us.'  " 

But  he  sighed  as  he  went  back  to  his  daugh- 
ter, and  he  did  not  see  the  beautiful  Miss  Rey- 
nolds when  she  bowed  to  him,  although  she  was 
smiling  her  sweetest  and  brightest  smile. 

Louise  sat  in  her  room.  Its  windows  opened 
upon  the  piazza,  and  she  had  witnessed  the  in- 
terview. She  did  not  waver  in  her  conviction 
that  she  had  done  right.     She  could  not  wisely 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S    VAGABOND.  79 

marry  a  man  whom  she  did  not  respect,  let  his 
charm  of  manner  and  temper  be  what  it  might. 
She  needed  a  man  who  was  manly,  who  could 
rule  other  men  ;  besides,  how  could  she  make 
up  her  mind  to  walk  through  life  with  a  husband 
hardly  above  her  shoulder  ?  Still,  she  conceded 
to  herself  that,  had  Talboys  compelled  one 
thrill  of  admiration  from  her  by  any  mental  or 
moral  height,  she  would  not  have  caviled  at  his 
short  stature.  But  there  was  something  ridicu- 
lous in  the  idea  of  Talboys  thrilling  anybody. 
For  one  thing,  he  took  everything  too  lightly. 
Suddenly,  with  the  sharpness  of  a  new  sensa- 
tion, she  remembered  that  he  had  not  seemed 
to  take  the  morning's  episode  lightly.  Poor 
Martin  ! — for  the  first  time,  even  in  her  rev- 
eries, she  called  him  by  his  Christian  name,  — 
there  was  an  uncomfortable  deal  of  feeling  in 
his  few  words.  Yet  he  was  considerate ;  he 
made  it  as  easy  as  possible  for  her. 

Martin  was  always  considerate ;  he  never 
jarred  on  her ;  possibly,  the  master  mind  might 
jar,  being  so  masterful.  He  was  always  kind, 
too  ;  continually  scattering  pleasures  about  in 
his  quiet  fashion.  Such  a  quiet  fashion  it  was 
that  few  people  noticed  how  persistent  was  the 
kindness.  Now  a  hundred  instances  rushed  to 
her  mind.  All  at  once,  recalling  something, 
she  blushed  hotly.     That  morning,  just  as  Tal- 


80  KNITTERS,  IN  THE  SUN 

boys  and  she  were  turning  from  the  place  where 
he  had  asked  and  she  had  answered,  she  caught 
a  glimpse  of  Demming's  head,  through  the 
leaves.  He  had  turned,  also,  and  he  made  a 
feint  of  passing  them,  as  though  he  were  but 
that  instant  walking  by.  The  action  had  a 
touch  of  delicacy  in  it ;  a  Northerner  of  Dem- 
ming's class  would  not  have  shown  it.  Louise 
felt  grateful  to  the  vagabond  ;  at  the  same  time, 
it  was  hardly  pleasant  to  know  that  he  was  as 
wise  as  she  in  Talboys'  heart  affairs.  As  for 
Talboys  himself,  he  had  not  so  much  as  seen 
Demming  ;  he  had  been  too  much  occupied  with 
his  own  bitter  thoughts.  Again  Louise  mur- 
mured, "  Poor  Martin  !  "  What  was  the  need, 
though,  that  her  own  heart  should  be  like  lead  ? 
Almost  impatiently,  she  rose  and  sought  her 
father. 

The  Bishop,  after  deliberation,  had  decided 
to  accompany  Demming  to  Charleston.  He 
excused  his  interest  in  the  man  so  elaborately 
and  plausibly  that  his  daughter  was  reminded 
of  Talboys. 

Saturday  morning  all  three  —  the  Bishop,  the 
vagabond,  and  Talboys  —  started  for  Charles- 
ton. Talboys,  however,  did  not  know  that  the 
Bishop  was  going.  He  bought  Demming's 
ticket,  saw  him  safely  to  a  seat,  and  went  into 
the  smoking-car.     The  Bishop  was  late,  but  the 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  81 

conductor,  with  true  Southern  good-nature, 
backed  the  train  and  took  him  aboard.  He 
seated  himself  in  front  of  Demming,  and  began 
to  wipe  his  heated  brow. 

"  Why  do  they  want  to  have  a  fire  in  the 
stove  this  weather  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Well,"  said  the  cracker  slyly,  "  you  see  we 
hain't  all  been  runnin',  an'  we  're  kinder  chilly ! " 
"  Humph  !  "  said   the   Bishop.      After   this 
there   was    silence.     The   train   rolled   along; 
through   the   pine   woods,  past  small   stations 
where  rose-trees  brightened  trim  white  cottages, 
then  into  the  swamp  lands,  where  the  moisture 
painted  the  bark  of  tall  trees,  and  lay  in  shiny 
green   patches   among   them.      The    Southern 
moss  dripping  from  the  giant  branches  shrouded 
them  in  a  weird  drapery,  soft  as  mist.     There 
was  something  dreary  and  painful  to  a  Northern 
eye,  in  the  scene  ;  the  tall  and  shrouded  trees, 
the  stagnant  pools  of  water  gleaming  among 
them,  the  vivid  green  patches  of  moss,  the  bar- 
ren stretches  of  sand.     The  very  beauty  in  it 
all  seemed  the  unnatural  glory  of  decay,  repel- 
ling the  beholder.    Here  and  there  were  cabins. 
One  could  not  look  at  them  without  wondering 
whether  the  inhabitants  had  the  ague,  or  its 
South   Carolina   synonym,    the    "  break  -  bone 
fever."     At  one,  a  bent  old  woman  was  wash- 
ing.    She  lifted  her  head,  and  Demming  waved 


82  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

his  hat  at  her.  Then  he  glanced  at  the  Bishop, 
now  busy  with  a  paper,  and  chuckled  over  some 
recollection.  He  looked  out  again.  There  was 
a  man  running  along  the  side  of  the  road  waving 
a  red  flag.  He  called  out  a  few  words,  which 
the  wind  of  the  train  tore  to  pieces.  At  the 
same  instant,  the  whistle  of  the  engine  began  a 
shrill  outcry.  "  Sunthin'  's  bust,  I  reckon," 
said  Demming.  And  then,  before  he  could  see, 
or  know,  or  understand,  a  tremendous  crash 
drowned  his  senses,  and  in  one  awful  moment 
blended  shivering  glass  and  surging  roof  and 
white  faces  like  a  horrible  kaleidoscope. 

The  first  thing  he  noticed,  when  he  came  to 
himself,  was  a  thin  ribbon  of  smoke.  He 
watched  it  lazily,  while  it  melted  into  the  blue 
sky,  and  another  ribbon  took  its  place.  But 
presently  the  pain  in  his  leg  aroused  him.  He 
perceived  that  the  car  was  lying  on  one  side, 
making  the  other  side  into  a  roof,  and  one  open 
window  was  opposite  his  eyes.  At  the  other 
end  the  car  was  hardly  more  than  a  mass  of 
broken  seats  and  crushed  sides,  but  it  was  al- 
most intact  where  he  lay.  He  saw  that  the 
stove  had  charred  the  wood- work  near  it ;  hence 
the  smoke,  which  escaped  through  a  crack  and 
floated  above  him.  The  few  people  in  the  car 
were  climbing  out  of  the  windows  as  best  they 
might.     A  pair  of  grimy  arms  reached  down  to 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  83 

Demming,  and  he  heard  the  brakeman's  voice 
(he  knew  Jim  Herndon,  the  brakeman,  well) 
shouting  profanely  for  the  "  next." 

"  Whar  's  the  Bishop  ?  "  said  Demming. 

"  Reckon  he 's  out,"  answered  Jim.    "  Mought 

as  well  come  yo'self !     H !  you  've   broke 

yo'  leg !  " 

"  Pull  away,  jes  the  same.  I  don'  wanter 
stay  yere  an'  roast !  " 

The  brakeman  pulled  him  through  the  win- 
dow. Demming  shut  his  teeth  hard  ;  only  the 
fear  of  death  could  have  made  him  bear  the  aor- 
ony  every  motion  gave  him. 

The  brakeman  drew  him  to  one  side  before 
he  left  him.  Demming  could  see  the  wreck 
plainly.  A  freight  train  had  been  thrown  from 
the  track,  and  the  passenger  train  had  run  into 
it  while  going  at  full  speed.  "  The  brakes 
wouldn't  work,"  Demming  heard  Jim  say. 
Now  the  sight  was  a  sorry  one  :  a  heap  of  rub- 
bish which  had  been  a  freight  car ;  the  passen- 
ger engine  sprawling  on  one  side,  in  the  swamp, 
like  a  huge  black  beetle ;  and,  near  it,  the  two 
foremost  cars  of  its  train  overturned  and  shat- 
tered. The  people  of  both  trains  were  gathered 
about  the  wreck,  helplessly  talking,  as  is  the 
manner  of  people  in  an  accident.  They  were, 
most  of  them,  on  the  other  side  of  the  track. 
No    one    had    been    killed  ;    but    some    were 


84  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

wounded,  and  were  stretched  in  a  ghastly  row 
on  car  cushions.  The  few  women  and  children 
in  the  train  were  collected  about  the  wounded. 

"  Is  the  last  man  out  ?  "  shouted  the  conduc- 
tor. 

Jim  answered,  "Yes,  all  out — no,  d it ! 

I  see  a  coat  tail  down  here." 

"  Look  at  the  fire ! "  screamed  a  woman. 
«  Oh,  God  help  him  !     The  car  's  afire !  " 

"  He  's  gone  up,  whoever  he  is,"  muttered 
Jim.  "  They  ain't  an  axe  nor  nothin'  on 
board,  an'  he's  wedged  in  fast.  But  come  on, 
boys  !     I  '11  drop  in  onct  mo' !  " 

"  You  go  with  him,"  another  man  said. 
"  Here,  you  fellows,  I  can  run  fastest ;  I  '11  go 
to  the  cabin  for  an  axe.  Some  of  you  follow 
me  for  some  water  !  " 

Demming  saw  the  speaker  for  an  instant,  — 
an  erect  little  figure  in  a  foppish  gray  suit,  with 
a  "  cat's  eye  "  gleaming  from  his  blue  cravat. 
One  instant  he  stood  on  the  piece  of  timber 
upon  which  he  had  jumped  ;  the  next  he  had 
flung  off  his  coat,  and  was  speeding  down  the 
road  like  a  hare. 

"  D ef  't  ain't  the  Gunnel,"  said  Dem- 
ming. 

"  Come  on  !  "  shouted  Talboys,  never  slack- 
ening his  speed.     "  Hurry  !  " 

The  men  went.     Demming,  weak  with  pain, 


o 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  85 

was  content  to  look  across  the  gap  between  the 
trams  and  watch  those  left  behind.  The  smoke 
was  growmg  denser  now,  and  tongues  of  flame 
shot  out  between  the  joints  of  wood.  They 
said  the  man  was  at  the  other  end.  Happily, 
the  wind  blew  the  fire  from  him.  Jim  and  two 
other  men  climbed  in,  again.  Demming  could 
hear  them  swearing  and  shouting.  He  looked 
anxiously  about,  seeking  a  familiar  figure  which 
he  could  not  find.  He  thought  it  the  voice  of 
his  own  fears,  that  cry  from  within  the  car. 
"  Good  God,  it 's  the  Bishop  !  "  But  immedi- 
ately Jim  thrust  his  head  out  of  the  window, 
and  called,  "  The  Bishop  's  in  hyar !  Under 
the  cyar  seats  !  He  ain't  hurt,  but  we  cyant 
move  the  infernal  things  ter  get  him  out !  " 

"  Oh,  Lordy  !  "  groaned  the  vagabond  ;  "  an' 
I  'm  so  broke  up  I  cyant  liff'  a  han'  ter  help 
him  !  "        ■ 

In  desperation,  the  men  outside  tried  to  bat- 
ter down  the  car  walls  with  a  broken  tree 
limb.  Inside,  they  strained  feverishly  at  the 
heavy  timbers.  Vain  efforts  all,  at  which  the 
crackling  flames,  crawling  always  nearer, 
seemed  to  mock. 

Demming  could  hear  the  talk,  the  pitying 
comments,  the  praise  of  the  Bishop  :  "  Such  a 
good  man  !  "  "  His  poor  daughter,  the  only 
child,  and   her  mother  dead  !  "     "  They  were 


86  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

SO  fond  of  each  other,  poor  thing,  poor  thing  !  " 
And  a  soft  voice  added,  '*  Let  us  pray  !  " 

"  PrayinV'  muttered  Demming,  "jes  like 
wimmen !  Laws,  they  don't  know  no  better. 
How  '11  I  git  ter  him  ?  " 

He  began  to  crawl  to  the  car,  dragging  his 
shattered  leg  behind  him,  reckless  of  the  throbs 
of  pain  it  sent  through  his  nerves.  "  Ef  I  kin 
ony  stan'  it  till  I  git  ter  him !  "  he  moaned. 
"  Burnin'  alive  's  harder  nor  this."  He  felt 
the  hot  smoke  on  his  face ;  he  heard  the  snap- 
ping and  roaring  of  the  fire ;  he  saw  the  men 
about  the  car  pull  out  Jim  and  his  companions, 
and  perceived  that  their  faces  were  blackened. 

"  It  '11  cotch  me,  suah  's  death  !  "  said  Dem- 
ming between  his  teeth.  ''  Well,  't  ain't  much 
mattah !  "  Mustering  all  his  strength  he  pulled 
himself  up  to  the  car  window  below  that  from 
which  Jim  had  just  emerged.  The  crowd,  oc- 
cupied with  the  helpless  rescuers,  had  not  ob- 
served him  before.  They  shouted  at  him  as 
one  man  :  "  Get  down,  it 's  too  late  I  "  "  You  're 
crazy,  you !  "  yelled  Jim,  with  an  oath. 

"Never  you  min',"  Demming  answered  coolly. 
"  I  know  what  I  'm  'bout,  I  reckon." 

He  had  taken  his  revolver  from  his  breast, 
and  was  searching  through  his  pockets.  He 
soon  pulled  out  what  he  sought,  merely  a  piece 
of  stout  twine ;  and  the  crowd  saw  him,  sitting 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  87 

astride  the  trucks,  while  he  tied  the  string 
about  the  handle  of  the  weapon.  Then  he 
leaned  over  the  prison  walls,  and  looked  down 
upon  the  Bishop.  Under  the  mass  of  wood  and 
iron  the  Bishop  lay,  unhurt  but  securely  im- 
prisoned ;  yet  he  had  never  advanced  to  the 
chancel  rails  with  a  calmer  face  than  that  he 
lifted  to  his  friend. 

"  Demming,"  he  cried,  "  you  here  !  Go 
back,  I  implore  you !     You  can't  save  me." 

"  I  know  thet.  Bishop,"  groaned  the  cracker. 
"  I  ain't  aimin'  ter.     But  I  cyan't  let  you  roast 

in  this  yere  d barbecue  !     Look  a  yere  !  " 

He  lowered  the  revolver  through  the  window. 
"  Thar  's  a  pistil,  an'  w'en  th'  fire  cotches  onter 
you  an'  yo'  gwine  suah  's  shootin',  then  put  it 
ter  yo'  head  an'  pull  the  trigger,  an'  yo  '11  be 
outen  it  all !  " 

The  Bishop's  firm  pale  face  grew  paler  as 
he  answered,  "  Don't  tempt  me,  Demming ! 
Whatever  God  sends  I  must  bear.  I  can't  do 
it !  "  Demming  paused.  He  looked  steadily 
at  the  Bishop  for  a  second ;  then  he  raised  the 
revolver,  with  a  little  quiver  of  his  mouth. 
"  And  go  away,  for  God's  sake,  my  poor  friend! 
Bear  my  love  to  my  dear,  dear  daughter ;  tell 
her  that  she  has  always  been  a  blessing  and  a 
joy  to  me.  And  remember  what  I  have  said  to 
you,  yourself.     It  will  be  worth  dying  for   if 


88  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

you  will  do  that ;  it  will,  indeed.  It  is  only  a 
short  pain,  and  then  heaven !  Now  go,  Dem- 
ming.     God  bless  and  keep  you.     Go  !  " 

But  Demming  did  not  move.  ''Don'  you 
want  ter  say  a  prayer,  Bishop  ?  "  he  said  in  a 
coaxing  tone,  —  "  jes  a  little  mite  o'  one  fur 
you  an'  me  ?  Ye  don'  need  ter  min'  'bout  sayin' 
't  loud.  I  '11  unnerstan'  th'  intention,  an'  feel 
jes  so  edified.     I  will,  fur  a  fac." 

"  Go,  first,  Demming.    I  am  afraid  for  you!  " 

"  I  'm  a-gwine.  Bishop,"  said  Demming,  in 
the  same  soft,  coaxing  tone.  "  Don'  min'  me. 
I  'm  all  right."  He  crouched  down  lower,  so 
that  the  Bishop  could  not  see  him,  and  the 
group  below  saw  him  rest  the  muzzle  of  the 
pistol  on  the  window-sill  and  take  aim. 

A  gasp  ran  through  the  crowd,  —  that  catch- 
ing of  the  breath  in  which  overtaxed  feeling 
relieves  itself.  "  He  's  doin'  the  las'  kindness 
he  can  to  him,"  said  the  brakeman  to  the  con- 
ductor, "  and  by  the  Lord,  he  's  giv'  his  own 
life  to  do  it !  " 

The  flames  had  pierced  the  roof,  and  streamed 
up  to  the  sky.  Through  the  sickening,  dull 
roar  they  heard  the  Bishop's  voice  again :  — 

"  Demming,  are  you  gone  ?  " 

The  cracker  struck  a  loose  piece  of  wood,  and 
sent  it  clattering  down.  "  Yes,  Bishop,  that 
wuz  me.     I  'm  safe  on  th'  groun'.     Good-by, 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND,  89 

Bishop.  I  do  feel  'bleeged  ter  you ;  an',  Bishop, 
them  chickens  wuz  the  fust  time.  They  wuz, 
on  my  honah.  Now,  Bishop,  shet  yo'  eyes  an' 
pray,  fur  it 's  a-comin  !  " 

The  Bishop  prayed.  They  could  not  hear 
what  he  said,  below.  No  one  heard  save  the 
uncouth  being  who  clung  to  the  window,  revol- 
ver in  hand,  steadily  eying  the  creeping  red 
death.  But  they  knew  that,  out  of  sight,  a 
man  who  had  smiled  on  them,  full  of  life  and 
hope  but  an  hour  ago,  was  facing  such  torture 
as  had  tried  the  martyr's  courage,  and  facing  it 
with  as  high  a  faith. 

With  one  accord  men  and  women  bent  their 
heads.  Jim,  the  brakeman,  alone  remained 
standing,  his  form  erect,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
two  iron  lines  that  made  an  angle  away  in  the 
horizon.  "  Come  on  !  "  he  yelled,  leaping  wildly 
into  the  air.  "  Fo'  the  Lord's  sake,  hurry ! 
D —  him,  but  he 's  the  bulliest  runner  !  " 

Then  they  all  saw  a  man  flying  down  the 
track,  axe  in  hand.  He  ran  up  to  the  car  side. 
He  began  to  climb.  A  dozen  hands  caught 
him.  "  You  're  a  dead  man  if  you  get  in  there  !  " 
was  the  cry.     "  Don't  you  see  it 's  all  afire  ?  " 

"  Try  it  from  the  outside,  Colonel !  "  said  the 
conductor. 

"  Don't  you  see  I  have  n't  time  ?  "  cried  Tal- 
boys.     "  He  '11  be  dead  before  we  can  get  to 


90  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

him.     Stand  back,  my  men,  and,  Jim,  be  ready 
to  pull  us  both  out!  " 

The  steady  tones  and  Talboys'  business-like 
air  had  an  instantaneous  effect.  The  crowd 
were  willing  enough  to  be  led  ;  they  fell  back, 
and  Talboys  dropped  through  the  window.  To 
those  outside  the  whole  car  seemed  in  a  blaze, 
and  over  them  the  smoke  hung  like  a  pall ;  but 
through  the  crackling  and  roaring  and  the  crash 
of  falling  timber  came  the  clear  ring  of  axe 
blows,  and  Talboys'  voice  shouting,  "  I  say,  my 
man,  don't  lose  heart !  We  're  bound  to  get 
you  out ! " 

"  Lordy,  he  don't  know  who  't  is,"  said  Dem- 
ming.  "Nobody  could  see  through  that  thar 
smoke !  "  v 

All  at  once  the  uninjured  side  of  the  car 
gave  way  beneath  the  flames,  falling  in  with  an 
immense  crash.     The  flame  leaped  into  the  air. 

"  They  're  gone  !  "  cried  the  conductor. 

"No,  they're  not!"  yelled  Demming.  "He's 
got  him,  safe  an'  soun'  !  "  And  as  he  spoke, 
scorched  and  covered  with  dust,  bleeding  from 
a  cut  on  his  cheek  but  holding  the  Bishop  in 
his  arms,  Talboys  appeared  at  the  window. 
Jim  snatched  the  Bishop,  the  conductor  helped 
out  Talboys,  and  half  a  dozen  hands  laid  hold 
of  Demming.  He  heard  the  wild  cheer  that 
greeted  them ;  he  heard  another  cheer  for  the 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  91 

men  with  the  water,  just  in  sight;  but  he  heard 
no  more,  for  as  they  pulled  him  down  a  dozen 
fiery  pincers  seemed  tearing  at  his  leg,  and  he 
fainted  dead  away. 

The  Bishop's  daughter  sat  in  her  room,  mak- 
ing a  very  pretty  picture,  with  her  white  hands 
clasped  on  her  knee  and  her  soft  eyes  uplifted. 
She  looked  sad  enough  to  please  a  pre-Raphael- 
ite  of  sentiment.  Yet  her  father,  whom  this 
morning  she  would  have  declared  she  loved 
better  than  any  one  in  the  world,  had  just  been 
saved  from  a  frightful  death.  She  knew  the 
story  of  his  deliverance.  At  last  she  felt  that 
most  unexpected  thrill  of  admiration  for  Tal- 
boys ;  but  Talboys  had  vanished.  He  was 
gone,  it  was  all  ended,  and  she  owned  to  herself 
that  she  was  wretched.  Her  father  was  with 
Demming  and  the  doctors.  The  poor  vagabond 
must  hobble  through  life  on  one  leg,  hencefor- 
ward. "  If  he  lived,"  the  doctor  had  said,  mak- 
ing even  his  existence  as  a  cripple  problematic. 
Poor  Demming,  who  had  flung  away  his  life  to 
save  her  father  from  suffering, — a  needless, 
useless  sacrifice,  as  it  proved,  but  touching 
Louise  the  more  because  of  its  very  failure  ! 

At  this  stage  in  her  thoughts,  she  heard  Sam, 
the  waiter,  knocking  softly,  outside.  Her  first 
question  was  about  Demming.     "  The   opera- 


92  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

tion  's  ovah,  miss,  an'  Mr.  Demming  he 's 
sinkinV'  answered  Sam,  giving  the  sick  man  a 
title  he  had  never  accorded  him  before,  "  an'  he 
axes  if  you  'd  be  so  kin'  's  to  step  in  an'  speak 
to  him  ;  he  's  powerful  anxious  to  see  you." 

Silently  Louise  arose  and  followed  the  mu- 
latto. They  had  carried  Demming  to  the  ho- 
tel: it  was  the  nearest  place,  and  the  Bishop 
wished  it.  His  wife  had  been  sent  for,  and  was 
with  him.  Her  timid,  tear-stained  face  was  the 
first  object  that  met  Louise's  eye.  She  sat  in  a 
rocking-chair  close  to  the  bed,  and,  by  sheer 
force  of  habit,  was  unconsciously  rocking  to  and 
fro,  while  she  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
Demming's  white  face  and  tangle  of  iron-gray 
hair  lay  on  the  pillow  near  her. 

He  smiled  feebly,  seeing  Louise.  She  did 
not  know  anything  better  to  do  than  to  take 
his  hand,  the  tears  brightening  her  soft  eyes. 
"  Laws,"  said  Demming,  "  don'  do  thet.  I  ain't 
wuth  it.  Look  a  yere,  I  got  sun'thin'  ter  say 
ter  you.  An'  you  must  n't  min',  'cause  I  mean 
well.  You  know  'bout  —  yes'day  mahnin'. 
Mabbe  you  done  what  you  done  not  knowin' 
yo'  own  min',  — laws,  thet 's  jes  girls,  —  an'  I 
wants  you  ter  know  jes  what  kin'  o'  feller  he  is. 
You  know  he  saved  yo'  pa,  but  you  don'  know, 
mabbe,  thet  he  did  n't  know  't  was  the  Bishop 
till  he'd  jump  down  in  thet  thar  flamin'  pit  o' 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  93 

hell,  as  't  were,  an'  fished  him  out.  He  done  it 
jes 'cause  he'd  thet  pluck  in  him,  an'  —  don' 
you  go  fer  ter  chippin'  in,  Gunnel.  I  'm  a  dyin' 
man,  an'  don'  you  forget  it  !  Thar  he  is,  miss, 
hidin'  like  behin'  the  bed." 

Louise  during  this  speech  had  grown  red  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair.  She  looked  up  into  Tal- 
boys'  face.  He  had  stepped  forward.  His 
usual  composure  had  quite  left  him,  so  that  he 
made  a  pitiful  picture  of  embarrassment,  not 
helped  by  crumpled  linen  and  a  borrowed  coat 
a  world  too  large  for  him.  "  It 's  just  a  whim 
of  his,"  he  whispered  hurriedly ;  "  he  wanted 
me  to  stay.  I  did  n't  know  —  I  did  n't  under- 
stand !  For  God's  sake,  don't  suppose  I  meant 
to  take  such  an  advantage  of  the  situation  !  I 
am  going  directly.  I  shall  leave  Aiken  to- 
night." 

It  was  only  the  strain  on  her  nerves,  but 
Louise  felt  the  oddest  desire  to  laugh.  The 
elegant  Martin  cut  such  a  very  droll  figure  as  a 
hero.  Then  her  eye  fell  on  Demming's  eager 
face,  and  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  a  sud- 
den keen  realization  of  the  tragedy  that  Martin 
had  averted  brought  the  tears  back  to  her  eyes. 
Her  beautiful  head  dropped.  "  Why  do  you 
go  —  now  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Hev  you  uns  made  it  up,  yet  ?  "  murmured 
Demming's  faint  voice. 


94  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"Yes,"  Talboys  answered,  "I  think  we  have, 
and  —  I  thank  you,  De naming."  The  vaga- 
bond waved  his  hand  with  a  feeble  assump- 
tion of  his  familiar  gesture.  "  Yo'  a  square 
man.  Gunnel.  I  alius  set  a  heap  by  you,  though 
I  did  n't  let  on.  An'  she  's  a  right  peart  young 
lady.  I'm  glad  yo'  gwine  ter  be  so  happy. 
Laws,  I  kind  o'  wish  I  wuz  to  see  it,  even  on  a 
wooden  leg "  —  The  woman  at  his  side  began 
to  sob.  "  Thar,  thar,  Alwynda,  don'  take  on 
so  ;  cyan't  be  helped.  You  mus'  'scuse  her, 
gen'lemen ;  she  so  petted  on  me  she  jes  cyan't 
hole  in !  " 

"  Demming,"  said  the  Bishop,  "  my  poor 
friend,  the  time  is  short ;  is  there  anything  you 
want  me  to  do  ?  "  Demming's  dull  eyes  spar- 
kled with  a  glimmer  of  the  old  humor. 

"  Well,  Bishop,  ef  you  don'  min',  I  'd  like 
you  ter  conduc'  the  fun'al  services.  Reckon 
they  '11  be  a  genuwine  co'pse  this  yere  time,  fo' 
suah.  An',  Bishop,  you  '11  kind  o'  look  ayfter 
Alwynda ;  see  she  gets  her  coffee  an'  terbacco 
all  right.  An'  I  wants  ter  'sure  you  all  again 
thet  them  thar  chickens  wuz  the  fust  an'  ony 
thing  I  evah  laid  ban's  on  t'  want  mine.  Thet 's 
the  solemn  truf ;  ain't  it,  Alwynda  ?  " 

The  poor  woman  could  only  rock  herself  in 
the  chair,  and  sob,  "  Yes,  't  is.  An'  he  's  been 
a  good  husband  to  me.     I  've  alius  bed  the  bes* 


THE  BISHOP'S   VAGABOND.  95 

uv  everything!     Oh,    Lordy,    'pears 's    like    I 
cyan't  bear  it,  nohow  !  " 

Louise  put  her  hand  gently  on  the  thin 
shoulder,  saying,  "  I  will  see  that  she  never 
wants  anything  we  can  give,  Demming;  and 
we  will  try  to  comfort  her." 

The  cracker  looked  wistfully  from  her  fresh, 
young  face  to  the  worn  face  below.  "  She  wuz  's 
peart  an'  purty  's  you,  miss,  w'en  I  fust  struck 
up  with  'er,"  said  he  slowly.  "  Our  little  gal 
wuz  her  very  image.  Alwynda,"  in  a  singu- 
larly soft,  almost  diffident  tone,  "  don'  take  on 
so ;  mabbe  I  'm  gwine  fer  ter  see  'er  again. 
'T  won't  do  no  harm  ter  think  so,  onyhow,"  he 
added,  with  a  glance  at  Talboys,  as  though  sure 
there  of  comprehension. 

Then  the  Bishop  spoke,  solemnly,  though 
with  sympathy,  urging  the  dying  man,  whose 
worldly  affairs  were  settled,  to  repent  of  his  sins 
and  prepare  for  eternity.  *' Shall  I  pray  for 
you,  Demming  ?  "  he  said  in  conclusion. 

"  Jes  as  you  please.  Bishop,"  answered  Dem- 
ming, and  he  tried  to  wave  his  hand.  "  I  ain't 
noways  partickler.  I  reckon  God  a'mighty 
knows  I  'd  be  th'  same  ole  Demming  ef  I  could 
get  up,  an'  I  don'  mean  ter  make  no  purtenses. 
But  mabbe  it'll  cheer  up  th'  ole  'ooman  a  bit. 
So  you  begin,  an'  I  '11  bring  in  an  Amen  when- 
ever it 's  wanted !  " 


96  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

So  speaking,  Demming  closed  his  eyes  wear- 
ily, and  the  Bishop  knelt  by  the  bedside.  Tal- 
boys  and  Louise  left  them,  thus.  After  a  while, 
the  wife  stretched  forth  her  toil-worn  hand  and 
took  her  husband's.  She  thought  she  was 
aware  of  a  weak  pressure.  But  when  the 
prayer  ended  there  came  no  Amen.  Demming 
was  gone  where  prayer  may  only  faintly  follow  ; 
nor  could  the  Bishop  ever  decide  how  far  his 
vagabond  had  joined  in  his  petitions.  Such 
doubts,  however,  did  not  prevent  his  cherishing 
an  assured  hope  that  the  man  who  died  for  him 
was  safe,  forever.  The  Bishop's  theology,  like 
that  of  most  of  us,  yielded,  sometimes,  to  the 
demands  of  the  occasion. 


MRS.   FINLAY'S   ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR. 

"  What  do  they  want  ?  "  said  Mr.  Finlay. 
A  sunbeam,  reflected  from  the  burnished  silver 
of  the  urn,  flicked  athwart  his  face,  to  empha- 
size his  smile.  Mr.  Finlay  smiled  often,  for  he 
was  not  only  a  good-tempered  man,  but  a  man 
keenly  susceptible  to  humorous  impressions. 
He  was  a  type  of  domestic  happiness  this  morn- 
ing, seated  in  that  family  temple,  the  dining- 
room,  his  two  handsome  boys  on  his  knees  and 
the  breakfast-table  before  him.  It  was  a  table 
glittering  with  silver  and  cut-glass,  and  it  wore 
that  air  of  elegant  antiquity  which  pertained 
to  all  Mrs.  Finlay's  house-furnishing,  being 
further  adorned  with  the  shell-like  blue  china 
brought  from  over  the  seas  by  Mrs.  Finlay's 
great-uncle,  old  Captain  Crowninshield.  The 
room  was  ample  and  lofty,  fitted  up  in  oak, 
which  had  gleams  of  red  and  gold  in  the  sunken 
carvings,  to  match  the  red  and  gold  stamped 
leather  on  the  walls.  There  were  no  plaques, 
no  pictures,  unless  that  were  a  picture  revealed 
by  the  wide  glass  doors,  —  a  glimpse  of  tropical 
foliage  and  falling  water  and  the  white  Diana 


98  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

lifting  her  lovely  arms  above  the  green.  Only 
a  glimpse  it  was ;  but  it  supplied  an  effect  of 
repose  and  mystery  that  the  sunshiny  room 
must  have  lacked  else,  and  added  a  light  touch 
to  the  half  foreign  picturesqueness  everywhere, 
the  rows  of  Venetian  glass  on  the  sideboard, 
the  Persian  rug  on  the  floor,  the  fire-place,  with 
its  quaint  Flemish  tiles,  the  dim  and  heavy 
folds  of  old  Italian  tapestry  draping  the  win- 
dows. Framed  by  these  folds  were  two  more 
pictures  :  on  one  side,  an  undulating  sweep  of 
hills  in  the  fresh  beauty  of  June,  brightly 
painted  wooden  houses  showing  through  the 
trees ;  on  the  other,  a  long  street,  ending  in  a 
huddle  of  factory  chimneys  and  the  Mississippi 
quivering  and  glittering  below.  Mrs.  Finlay 
was  gazing  absently  at  the  river.  Her  smooth, 
low  brow  was  darkened  by  a  rare  cloud. 

"  Want?  "  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  everything; 
a  museum  in  a  country  town  is  such  an  elastic 
affair.  Mrs.  Cody  says  they  don't  want  to  con- 
fine it  to  pictures.  They  were  all  here,  the 
entire  committee,  Mrs.  Cody,  Mrs.  Hubbard, 
and  Miss  Durham." 

"Violet?"  said  Mr.  Finlay,  looking  inter- 
ested. "  I  wish  I  had  seen  her ;  it  is  an  age 
since  I  have  seen  Violet." 

"She  was  looking  extremely  pretty,"  said 
Mrs.  Finlay,  who  had  been  told  long  ago  that 


o 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.     99 

her  husband  had  once  wanted  to  marry  Violet 
Durham.  "  She  picked  out  most  of  my  Meissen 
plates ;  she  knew  the  King's  Period  at  a  glance. 
And  they  want  my  old  Flemish  lace  and  most 
of  the  pictures,  and  the  old  sword  and  the 
screens,  and  —  oh,  yes,  they  want  the  chair  !  " 

*'  Well,  you  will  let  them  have  the  things, 
won't  you?" 

"  Everything  but  the  chair.  There  is  a  limit, 
Tom." 

"  Why  not  the  chair  ?  They  won't  hurt  it ; 
and  here 's  a  chance  for  you  to  educate  the 
WrenJiam  taste." 

Mrs.  Finlay  shrugged  her  pretty  shoulders, 
and  said  that  she  had  no  such  ambition. 

"  Milly,"  said  Tom  Finlay,  looking  at  his 
wife  over  his  son's  curly  head,  "  don't  you  think 
you  are  just  the  least  bit  hard  on  Wrenham  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  she  answered  coldly,  "it 
is  they  who  are  hard  on  me.  They  quite  dis- 
approve of  me,  Tom.  I  have  wine  at  dinner, 
with  my  two  boys  growing  up  ;  I  have  a  butler 
and  a  coachman  ;  hence  I  am  a  snob  and  ape 
the  English.  Don't  you  remember,  Tom,  how 
the  boys  used  to  shout  after  poor  John  Rogers, 
whenever  he  drove  out,  '  Hi,  where  's  the  cir- 
cus ?  '  I  shall  be  contented  if  the  museum  cul- 
tivates the  Wrenham  taste  up  to  the  point  of 
tolerating  my  liveries." 


100  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  I  don't  think  it 's  the  liveries  that  makes 
the  trouble,  Milly,"  said  Mr.  Finlay,  gravely  ; 
*'  it 's  a  notion  they  have  here  that  you  look 
down  on  them  as  uncouth  and  provincial.  Per- 
haps we  are,  but  we  don't  like  to  be  despised 
for  it,  all  the  same.  I  'm  not  complaining,  you 
know.  I  realize  that  it  is  a  bore  for  you  to 
have  to  live  in  Wrenham  ;  but  it  would  really 
be  so  much  less  of  a  bore  if  you  could  like  the 
people,  and  there  is  a  great  deal  in  them  to  like 
when  you  get  at  them." 

"  Probably  I  have  never  got  at  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Finlay. 

Then  she  was  silent.  The  Finlays  were 
rich  enough  to  have  made  a  figure  in  New  York 
or  Boston,  and  it  was  the  skeleton  in  Emily 
FinMy's  closet  that  she  must  live  in  Wrenham, 
a  stupid,  censorious,  provincial  town,  where  one 
could  n't  even  get  ice-cream  in  bricks. 

Too  well  bred  to  exhibit  the  skeleton,  possi- 
bly she  did  not  lock  it  up  securely,  since  the 
Wrenham  people  knew  quite  well  that  she 
never  stayed  a  day  longer  there  than  she  could 
help.  On  their  side,  they  repaid  this  passive 
and  unexpressed  dislike  with  indignant  criti- 
cism. They  mimicked  her  accent,  ridiculed  her 
hospitality,  mocked  at  her  housekeeping. 

It  was  a  pity,  too,  for  Mrs.  Finlay  w^as  a 
charming  woman.     She  had  vivacity  as  well  as 


MRS.  FINLATS  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  101 

repose,  and  such  exquisite  taste  in  dress  that 
she  passed  for  a  beauty  ;  although,  to  be  frank, 
she  was  simply  a  graceful  creature  with  a  Greek 
forehead,  most  beautiful  brown  eyes,  and  a  del- 
icate mouth  a  trifle  too  large  for  her  face. 

But  grace  and  charm,  both,  were  wasted  on 
Wrenham.  Indeed,  that  the  criticism  was  not 
more  bluntly  expressed  she  owed  to  her  hus- 
band. Tom  Finlay  —  so  every  one  called  him 
—  was  the  most  popular  man  in  all  the  country 
round  about ;  he  was  liked  by  the  towns-people 
and  the  farmers,  by  the  workmen  in  his  coal 
mines  and  the  clerks  in  his  railroad  office ;  by 
women  and  children  ;  for  that  matter,  by  the 
very  dogs  on  the  street  and  the  horses  in  his 
stable.  Nor  was  such  universal  affection 
strange.  Tom  Finlay  was  a  man  at  once  up- 
right and  genial,  and  he  had  a  singularly  gentle 
and  modest  manner.  He  was  the  descendant 
of  an  ancient  Scotch  family,  whose  two  centuries 
in  America  had  obliterated  their  national  char- 
acteristics. The  two  centuries  had  been  spent 
in  Philadelphia ;  but  Tom's  father  had  gone 
to  Illinois  for  his  health,  and  there,  in  Wren- 
ham,  Tom  was  born.  Inheriting  a  fortune,  he 
had  been  rather  elaborately  educated ;  but  Har- 
vard and  Heidelberg  could  not  quite  brush 
away  the  flavor  of  the  prairies ;  to  the  end  he 
was  a  Westerner  ;  he  had  a  dash  of  the  West- 


102  KNITTERS  IN  THE    SUN. 

ern  unconventionality  and  all  the  Western  en- 
ergy ;  and  there  was  in  him  a  peculiarly  West- 
ern  blending    of    sympathy   and   shrewdness. 
Nothing  human    was  foreign   to   him,  yet   he 
rarely  threw  away  either  his  money  or  his  emo- 
tions.    His  attachment  to  the  soil  certainly  was 
not  Western ;  it  must  have  come  to  him  from 
his  Scotch  ancestors.      The  original  family  of 
Finlays  had  it  also.     They  abode  in  Philadel- 
phia, still,  cherishing  the  family  traditions  and 
the  old  portraits  by  Peale  and  Copley.     They 
mourned  over  Tom,  "  who  was  not  like  the  Fin- 
lays."     His  choice  of  a  wife,  they  felt,  was  a 
direct  interposition  of  Providence.     "  A  Massa- 
chusetts   Endicott ! ''    they   said    under    their 
breath,  and  they  welcomed  Emily  with   open 
arms.      She  justified  their  confidence,  taking 
the   liveliest   interest   in   Tom's  ancestors  and 
reverently  admiring  the  family  relics.     As  for 
Tom,  he  laughed  openly  at  the  illustrious  house 
of  Finlay.     The  glories  of  a  race,  tracing  the 
roots  of  its  ancestral  tree  down  to  the  stone  cof- 
fins of  the  early  Scottish  kings,  were  only  a 
joke  to  this  irreverent  descendant.     "  It  was 
his  horrid  Western  humor,"  his  wife  supposed. 
She  dreaded  Tom's  humor,  which  found  its  food 
everywhere,  quiet  as  it  was.     Though  he  was 
the  most  generous  and  tolerant  of  husbands, 
she  sometimes  had  the  strangest,  chilliest  sensa- 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  103 

tion  of  serving  as  the  butt  of  bis  silent  and 
secret  wit.     He  never  ridiculed  ber ;    be  was 
only  amused  by  ber,  wbicb  was  worse.     Her 
fears  did  ber  busband  injustice,  but  tbey  were 
so  undemonstrative  that  be  never  bad  a  cbance 
to  dispel  them.     All  the  same  they  did  their 
work  well.     Tbey  cut  off  the  natural  simple 
confidences  between  husband  and  wife.     They 
made  Emily  shy  of  any  vivid  expression  of  feel- 
ing.    Tbey  repressed  the  very  evidences  of  ber 
affection  for  Tom,  while  they  made  it  out  of 
the  question  for  ber  to  confess  those  vague  and 
passing  doubts  which  trouble  the  serenest  love 
when  the  lover  is  a  woman.     Besides,  she  was 
a  New  England  woman,  trained  to  exaggerate 
ber  conscience   and   underrate    ber   emotions. 
Therefore,  she  tried  on  honest,  unworldly  Tom 
tactics  which  bad  been  better  suited  to  a  worn- 
out  man  of  pleasure.     She  gave  him  a  beautiful 
and   harmonious   home;    she   won  admiration 
everywhere  —  except  in  Wrenham  ;  she  never 
let  him  see  ber  out  of  temper ;   in  short,  she 
made    him    delightfully  comfortable.      When 
they  were  away  from   Wrenham, — and  they 
were  away  from  Wrenham  a  great  deal,  — Tom 
was  told  on  all  sides  bow  fortunate  be  was  in 
bis  wife.     He  agreed  heartily  ;  yet,  in  truth, 
he  was  not  more  satisfied  with  bis  married  hap- 
piness than   was   she.     He  would   have  liked 


104  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN. 

Emily  to  be  more  expansive;  he  longed  for 
those  trivial  confidences  which  she  withheld  as 
bores ;  and,  on  many  accounts,  it  would  have 
gratified  him  to  have  had  his  wife  fond  of  his 
native  town.  But,  being  so  tolerant,  he  rea- 
soned that  he  could  not  expect  everything  from 
one  woman.  "  Milly  is  the  most  charming  and 
sweetest-tempered  woman  in  the  world,  and  the 
best  mother,"  thought  Tom,  stroking  a  rather 
melancholy  smile  with  his  big  hand ;  "  and 
I  'm  much  too  ugly  and  tame  for  a  beautiful 
woman  to  fall  desperately  in  love  with  me. 
Very  likely  I  'm  a  trifle  provincial  in  the  bar- 
gain. Wrenham  and  I  suit  each  other.  It 
is  n't  odd  we  don't  just  suit  her."  Therefore, 
he  said  nothing  of  his  feelings.  To-day,  for  the 
first  time  in  years,  he  had  spoken.  Now,  he 
was  blaming  himself  for  his  speech.  What  was 
the  use  ?  He  had  merely  bothered  Milly. 
Mrs.  Finlay,  on  her  part,  was  disgusted  with 
herself  because  she  had  shown  a  tinge  of  irri- 
tability. 

"You   see,   Tom,"   she  said   after  a   pause, 
"  that  chair  is  my  pet  weakness." 

"  Well,  I  would  n't  send  it  then,"  answered 
Tom,  easily. 

Mrs.  Finlay  considered. 

Now,  the  chair  was  the  delight  of  her  eyes 
—  the  darling  of  her  pride ;  a  genuine  Eliza- 


o 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  105 

betlian  chair  of  age-blackened  oak,  given  her 
by  the  chief  of  the  Fin  lay  clan,  who  still  main- 
tained a  faded  magnificence  in  the  Highlands. 
Originally   it    was   an    English   chair,   coming 
north  as  part  of  the  bridal  portion  of  the  Eng- 
lish wife  of  one  of  the  Finlays  ;*  and  tradition 
declared  that  the  hapless  Queen  of  Scots,  while 
visiting  her  loyal  follower,  the  then  Sir  Fergus, 
had  made  the  chair  her  throne.     The  Finlay 
arms  were  carved  on  the  back,  and  the  date,  — 
a  sight  to  awe  caviling  skeptics.     Very  dear  to 
Mrs.  Finlay  was  the  chair ;   dearer  than  her 
pictures  or  her  rare  old  engravings  or  her  fra- 
gile treasures  from  Venice,  or  even  the  wonder- 
ful vase  which  was  possibly  "  Henri  Deux "  ; 
dearer  by  far  than  her  own  family  heir-looms 
of   sword   and   clock   and   china.     There   was 
another  sword,  a  Scottish  claymore,  as  well  as 
a  battered  buckler,  further  gifts  of  Sir  Fergus ; 
but  a  haze  hung  over  their  history,  and  Mrs. 
Finlay,  alluding  to  them,  simply  gave  them 
the  general   title  of  honor,   "  In  the  family." 
Of   course,   there  could   be  no   comparison  of 
such  as  these  with  the  chair.     This  was  why 
Mrs.  Finlay  considered.     The  children  thought 
it  time  to  join  in  the  conversation.     Fergus, 
the  elder,  who  was  nine,  wanted  to  know  what 
kind  of  a  show  an  art  museum  was ;  "  did  it 
have  an  elephant  ?  " 


106  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  They  only  have  pictures  and  things,"  said 
his  mother ;  "  you  may  go,  if  we  are  here." 

"I'd  rather  go  to  Barnum's,"  said  Fergus, 
thoughtfully.  "Say,  mamma,  let's  stay  and 
go  to  Barnum's ;  you  take  me.  Lots  of  boys' 
mammas  take  them  to  the  circus !  " 

"  Francis  will  take  you,  brother,  and  you 
may  ask  that  boy  you  like  so  much  —  Jimmy 
Hubbard,  is  n't  it  ?  " 

"  I  'm  'fraid  he  would  n't  want  to  go  with  me, 
he's  so  big,"  Fergus  replied,  despondently. 
Jimmy  Hubbard  was  his  boy  hero,  but  he  was 
fifteen,  and  Fergus  worshiped  him  from  afar. 
"Maybe,  though,"  he  continued,  brightening, 
"  he  might  if  I  had  on  long  pants ;  I  would  n't 
look  so  little  then ;  and,  mamma,  honesty  there 
ain't  another  boy  in  Wrenham,  big  as  me, 
wears  short  pants  !  " 

"Do  say  trousers,  Fergus.  Anyhow,  we 
shan't  be  in  Wrenham  much  more  than  a 
week.     You  shall  see  Jumbo,  East "  — 

"  Oh,  mamma !  "  said  Fergus,  reproachfully  ; 
and,  "  Oh,  mamma  ! "  echoed  little  four-year- 
old  Tom. 

"  My  very  children  desert  me  and  like  the 
place,"  thought  Mrs.  Finlay. 

"  Better  stay  till  this  fandango  is  over,  don't 
you  think,  Milly  ?  "  said  Tom  ;  "  it  looks  more 
neighborly." 


o 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  107 

"  Very  well,  dear,"  said  Emily,  with  a  smile 
which,  under  the  circumstances,  was  heroic. 
She  turned  the  talk  lightly  to  something  else ; 
but  when  Tom  and  the  children  were  gone, 
and  she  was  alone  in  the  pretty  dining-room, 
she  sighed. 

Tom  Finlay  came  home  to  luncheon  that 
day,  and  ran  in  upon  the  "  soliciting  committee  " 
of  the  Wrenham  Art  Museum.  They  were 
standing  in  the  hall,  around  the  chair,  all  three, 
Mrs.  Hubbard,  Mrs.  Cody,  and  Violet  Durham. 
Mrs.  Hubbard  was  the  president  of  the  library, 
for  the  benefit  of  which  the  museum  was  to  be. 
She  was  a  tall  woman,  with  winning  manners, 
and  a  handsome,  care-worn  face.  Her  husband 
was  a  district  judge.  His  salary  was  small, 
and  they  had  six  children ;  but  Mrs.  Hubbard 
was  always  pressed  to  serve  on  church  commit- 
tees and  to  aid  charitable  undertakings,  because 
she  had  so  much  tact  and  was  "  such  a  worker." 
Mrs.  Cody,  the  second  member,  had  a  more 
brilliant  worldly  lot,  being  the  wife  of  a  rich 
grocer.  She  was  large,  florid,  and  sprightly, 
and  her  gleaming  black  satin  gown  rattled 
and  sparkled  with  jet  pendants.  Violet  Dur- 
ham, the  remaining  member,  leaned  over  the 
high  chair-back,  her  pretty  face  upraised.  The 
wind  had  roughened  her  smooth,  black  braids ; 
one   loosened    lock   curled   against    her   white 


108  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

neck ;  under  the  shadow  of  her  hat,  her  great, 
dark  eyes  were  shining.  She  wore  a  simple 
cambric  gown,  which  had  brown  figures  on  a 
yellowish  background,  and  there  were  bows  of 
brown  ribbon  about  it,  with  long  ends  to  flut- 
ter when  she  moved ;  and  a  careless  bunch  of 
Jacqueminot  roses  was  stuck  in  her  belt.  In 
the  light  poise  of  her  figure,  in  the  expression 
of  her  face,  even  in  the  arrangement  of  her 
daintily  fresh  dress,  there  was  an  air  of  cheer- 
ful animation ;  she  made  one  think  of  prairie 
flowers  when  the  breeze  shakes  the  dew  from 
them.  Tom  Finlay  gave  her  a  glance  of  ad- 
miration and  a  half  wistful  smile.  He  had 
known  Violet  all  his  life.  Her  only  brother, 
who  died  at  college,  had  been  his  most  intimate 
friend ;  Mrs.  Durham  used  to  call  Tom  "  her 
other  boy " ;  he  was  always  at  their  house. 
Naturally,  he  fell  in  love  with  Violet.  It  was 
a  boyish  passion,  never  avowed  and  soon  cured ; 
and  he  married  Emily  Finlay  with  no  disturb- 
ing memories.  He  did  more  ;  he  gave  substan- 
tial aid  to  the  young  lawyer  whom  Violet  had 
preferred  to  him.  She  was  on  the  eve  of  marry- 
in  s:  this  man  when  both  her  father  and  he  were 
killed  in  a  railway  accident.  Colonel  Durham 
left  a  large  property  in  such  a  state  of  confusion 
that  it  was  feared  there  would  be  nothing  left 
for  Violet  and  her  mother.     Then  Tom  Finlay 


o 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  109 

came  forward;  his  advice  and  energy,  and  the 
loan  he  insisted  upon  making  them,  rescued  a 
modest  independence  from  the  tangle.  Mrs. 
Durham  and  Violet  went  abroad,  and  were 
gone  five  years.  Tom  wanted  his  wife  to  take 
these  good  friends  of  his  to  her  heart ;  there- 
fore, praising  himself  for  Machiavelian  wile,  he 
was  very  reticent  about  thera,  and  said  not  a 
word  of  his  little  romance.  So  the  story  came 
to  Mrs.  Finlay  in  bits,  to  be  pieced  together  by 
her  fancy.  She  did  not  take  the  Durhams  to 
her  heart.  She  was  perfectly  courteous ;  she 
asked  them  to  the  house  whenever  Tom  sug- 
gested ;  but  the  pleasant,  informal  intercourse 
that  he  had  planned  never  came.  He  did 
not  complain ;  indeed,  what  cause  for  com- 
plaint had  he  ?  Mrs.  Finlay  did  all  he  asked ; 
but  there  was  a  sore  spot  in  his  regret.  To- 
day, as  he  greeted  Violet,  he  was  thinking  how 
seldom  he  saw  the  Durhams  in  his  home,  and 
how  welcome  he  had  always  been  made  to 
theirs.  A  hundred  trivial,  touching  recollec- 
tions of  his  childhood  helped  to  bring  that 
wistful  curve  to  his  lips.  Instantly  it  was 
gone,  and  he  was  greeting  the  ladies  with  most 
commonplace  politeness ;  but  his  wife  had  seen 
it  before  it  went. 

The  moment  the  salutations  were  over,  Mrs. 
Cody,  who  had  been  speaking,  continued :  — 


110  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  know  your  feeling,  Mrs. 
Finlay.  When  they  asked  me  for  my  Jackson 
chair,  —  it  was  given  to  Mr.  Cody  by  the  Gen- 
eral himself,  you  know,  and  he  said  it  was  a 
hundred  years  old,  —  well,  when  they  asked 
for  that,  it  didn't  seem  as  though  I  could  let  it 
go.  But  we're  so  interested  in  the  library, 
and  of  course  it 's  different  with  you ;  you  can't 
be  expected,  as  I  told  the  ladies,  to  feel  an 
interest.  It  ain't  as  though  you  belonged  to 
the  town." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  think  of  us  as  not  belong- 
ing to  Wrenham,"  said  Tom ;  "  I  'm  a  regular 
Wrenham  boy." 

Mrs.  Cody  waved  her  plump  hand.  "  Oh, 
you,  of  course,  Mr.  Finlay;  but  gentlemen 
are  different ;  you  have  your  business  here. 
But  we  see  so  little  of  Mrs.  Finlay,  we  feel  she 
is  quite  a  stranger." 

Mrs.  Cody  had  a  marvelous  faculty  for  say- 
ing stinging  things.  Charitable  people  held 
that  she  was  simjDly  heedless ;  the  less  chari- 
table said  her  shafts  were  too  well  aimed  for 
shots  in  the  air.  Mrs.  Hubbard  hurried  into 
the  conversation. 

"Mrs.  Finlay  always  shows  she  is  not  a 
stranger  by  her  kindness,"  she  said;  "she  has 
let  us  have  such  a  quantity  of  beautiful  things." 

"  That 's  right,"  said  Tom,  cordially  ;  "  can't 
you  think  of  something  else  ?  " 


MRS.  FINLATS  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.  Ill 

"  Only  the  chair,"  Mrs.  Cody  replied,  sol- 
emnly. 

Mrs.  Finlay  looked  from  the  speaker  to  her 
husband. 

"  If  you  really  think  the  chair  will  help  the 
museum,  you  are  quite  welcome  to  it,"  she 
said. 

The  visitors  broke  into  a  confusion  of  thanks. 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you,  Mrs.  Finlay,"  cried 
Violet  Durham.  "  I  will  look  after  the  chair, 
myself." 

"  We  will  all  look  after  it,"  said  Mrs.  Cody. 
"  And  now,  Mrs.  Finlay,  you  encourage  us  to 
ask  one  favor  more  :  won't  you  come  on  to  our 
general  committee  ?  " 

Again  Emily  glanced  at  her  husband ;  there 
was  a  familiar  twinkle  in  his  eye. 

"  I  fear  I  shan't  be  any  help  to  you,"  she  an- 
swered, gravely,  ''but  — yes,  certainly,  if  you 
wish  it." 

It  must  be  confessed  that,  though  the  com- 
mittee professed  unbounded  gratitude  and  sat- 
isfaction over  this  last  boon,  they  looked  rather 
blank ;  Mrs.  Finlay  guessed  that  they  had  ex- 
pected a  refusal.  She  urged  them  to  stay  to 
lancheon,  a  courtesy  which  had  its  natural  ef- 
fect, the  hastening  of  their  departure. 

After  they  were  gone,  Tom  Finlay  said; 
"  You  were  very  good-natured,  Milly." 


112  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"It  was  not  good  -  nature,  Tom,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "  it  was  —  well,  I  am  not  sure  I  know 
what  it  was  myself." 

She  walked  up-stairs,  leaving  him  whistling 
softly. 

•  ••••••••• 

The  Wrenham  Art  Museum  opened  its  doors 
two  weeks  later.  For  days  the  workers  had 
toiled  over  a  chaos  of  old  books,  pictures,  and 
bric-a-brac.  The  result  exceeded  their  hopes. 
But  even  in  riches  there  is  embarrassment. 
The  usual  procession  of  petty  trials  had  filed 
through  the  days.  A  sad  amount  of  ill-feeling 
was  caused  by  a  few  slips  of  memory,  some  la- 
dies not  being  asked  to  help  at  all,  and  others 
being  asked  too  late.  Careless  remarks  about 
the  objects  of  art  had  wounded  sensitive  souls. 
Disputes  had  arisen  in  the  committees.  There 
was  the  quarrel  about  the  building,  happily  set- 
tled at  last  by  Mr.  Cody's  generous  offer  of  his 
late  grocery  shop,  free  of  rent.  To  be  sure, 
the  vigilant  nose  could  still  sniff  odors  of  salt 
fish,  kerosene  oil,  and  molasses,  despite  the  la- 
bors of  the  scrub-women ;  and  it  never  had 
been  considered  a  well-lighted  shop.  But  a 
gift  horse  should  not  be  looked  in  the  mouth ; 
it  was  a  large,  convenient,  inexpensive  museum 
hall,  and  the  committee  accepted  it  gratefully, 
as  was  their  duty. 


o 


MRS.  FINLATS  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    113 

The  selection  of  a  janitor  was  not  so  easily- 
made.  Mrs.  Cody  proposed  a  retainer  of  her 
own,  an  old  fellow  named  Judson,  who  picked 
•  up  a  precarious  livelihood,  mowing  lawns,  run- 
ning of  errands,  and  working  out  poll-taxes, 
while  his  wife  made  up  the  deficiencies  in  the 
family  income  by  taking  in  washing.  Judson 
had  lately  joined  a  temperance  society,  but  a 
particularly  unsavory  past  marred  his  reputa- 
tion. 

This  was  Miss  Durham's  objection  to  him. 

"He  may  get  drunk  and  burn  us  all  up," 
said  she ;  "  besides,  he  is  a  weak  old  man,  and 
couldn't  fight  a  burglar  !  " 

"  He  belongs  to  the  Sons  of  Temperance," 
Mrs.  Cody  returned  stiffly ;  "  he  don't  drink  a 
drop,  and  he  will  have  a  pistol." 

A  mild  little  woman  here  said  that  she 
guessed  he  did  need  the  place  ;  his  wife  had 
been  sick  most  of  the  winter. 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Mrs.  Cody  warmly,  "  / 
think  that  when  anybody  repents  and  is  strug- 
gling to  do  better,  they  ought  to  be  encouraged 
and  not  trampled  on  !  " 

"  That 's  so,"  another  member  of  the  com- 
mittee agreed.  "  Besides,  we  want  to  have 
Mrs.  Judson  to  clean,  and  it  will  be  much  more 
convenient.  She  can  come  in  the  mornings, 
too,  and   sweep  and  dust.      She  oughtn't   to 


114  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

charge  much,  if  we  have  him.  We  can  make 
all  the  cleaning  part  of  his  business;  then 
she  '11  come  and  do  it." 

In  vain  Violet  pleaded  the  danger  of  Jud- . 
son's  relapsing  into  his  old  habits ;  mercy  and 
thrift  combined  carried  the  day ;  Mrs.  Finlay 
was  the  single  member  voting  with  her. 

Mrs.  Finlay  came  to  most  of  the  meetings. 
She  said  little  and  noticed  much.  Mrs.  Hub- 
bard, "  for  her  sins,"  Violet  said,  was  the  chief 
ruler  of  the  artistic  council.  Mrs.  Finlay  used 
to  marvel  at  her  unfailing  patience.  She 
thought  her  own  politeness,  well  trained  as  it 
was,  would  have  trembled  beneath  the  awful 
responsibilities  of  china,  the  charges  of  express 
companies,  the  delays  of  printers,  the  assaults 
of  irate  owners  of  pictures  which  were  not  hung 
to  their  taste,  and  of  distracted  hanging  com- 
mittees and  amateur  artists  with  pictures  of 
their  own  to  show,  who  had  the  "  artistic  tem- 
perament "  to  such  a  degree  that  they  could 
scarcely  be  trusted  in  the  same  room  together. 
But  Mrs.  Hubbard  never  winced,  she  only 
looked  rather  more  tired  at  times.  Her  son 
and  Violet  were  her  great  helpers,  Jimmy 
Hubbard  was  young  Fergus  Finlay 's  hero,  a 
tall  lad  of  fifteen,  whose  wrists  were  always 
growing  out  of  his  jacket  sleeves.  He  was  de- 
voted  to   Violet,  and  Violet  was   devoted   to 


MRS.  FIN  LAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    115 

Jimmy's  handsome,  overworked  mother.  They 
did  a  little  of  nearly  everything  that  was  to  be 
done,  from  scrubbing  show-cases  to  writing  ad- 
vertisements. 

"  Only,"  said  Violet,  "  I  trust  a  confiding 
public  does  n't  believe  the  wild  tales  owners  of 
antiquities  tell  about  their  things.  If  this  ex- 
hibition lasts  much  longer,  I  shall  lose  my  soul 
—  I  've  got  into  such  a  way  of  lying !  "  Jim- 
my's specialty  was  painting  placards.  He  made 
beautiful  letters,  but  his  spelling  was  not  be- 
yond reproach.  He  enjoyed  the  museum  im- 
mensely. "Such  fun!"  said  Jimmy;  "those 
people  in  the  picture-room  are  just  going  it ! 
Mrs.  Cody  had  somebody's  picture  took  down 
and  hers  hung  in  the  same  place ;  said  her  pic- 
ture needed  that  light  and  t'  other  one  did  n't. 
And  now  the  other  woman,  she  's  come  back, 
and  —  oh,  ain't  they  having  a  circus,  though ! 
And  up  in  the  room  where  they  have  the  Jap- 
anese things,  they  've  lost  all  the  labels  ;  they 
tumbled  off  and  got  mixed  up,  and  they  're  put- 
ting 'em  back  by  guess.  Folks  '11  open  their 
eyes  when  they  see  the  catalogue.  And  doAvn- 
stairs  in  the  china-room,  somebody  's  hooked 
their  show-case,  so  the  china 's  standing  round 
on  the  floor ;  and  they  say  they  can't  do  noth- 
ing till  they  get  another  show-case,  so  they  've 
gone  off  to  dinner,  and  there  ain't  nobody  in 
the  room  'cept  a  dog !  " 


116  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  A  dog !  "  cried  Mrs.  Hubbard,  while  Mrs. 
Finlay  turned  pale.  "  I  must  go  this  in- 
stant "  — 

"  Oh,  I  coaxed  him  out,"  said  Jimmy ;  "  I 
thought  it  didn't  look  just  healthy  for  the 
china.  Guess  he  had  n't  broke  much  ;  some  of 
it  was  broke  to  start  with,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

Poor  Mrs.  Hubbard  hurried  away.  Violet 
laughed. 

"  I  think  I  must  hunt  them  up  a  show-case," 
said  she.  "  Take  our  old  books  out,  Jimmy, 
and  let  us  give  them  that." 

''  But  you  spent  all  the  morning  arranging 
them,"  said  Mrs.  Finlay;  "and  you  brought 
the  show-case  yourself.     It  is  quite  too  bad  ! " 

"  Oh,  it  does  n't  matter,"  answered  Violet, 
gayly ;  "  it 's  all  for  the  public  good."  She 
was  always  cheerful.  "  I  suppose  I  have  no 
proper  pride,"  she  said  once;  "nobody  wants 
me  to  be  chairman  of  anything ;  my  valuable 
suggestions  have  been  uniformly  rejected  ;  and 
still,  Jimmy,  we  are  happy  !  " 

"  I  wish  that  Mrs.  Cody  was  n't  chairman  of 
our  committee,  though,"  said  Jimmy;  "she 
never  does  a  thing  —  just  sails  round  and 
bosses !  " 

"But  she  ha's  been  very  liberal.  Think  of 
the  things  she  has  sent  us ;  think  of  the  Jack- 
son chair !  " 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    117 

"It  ain't  half  as  pretty  as  Mrs.  Finlay's," 
said  Jimmy,  unwitting  that  Mrs.  Finlay  stood 
behind  him ;  "  and  she  makes  ten  times  as 
much  fuss.     No  Cody  in  mine,  thank  you." 

Mrs.  Finlay  smiled  as  she  walked  away,  feel- 
ing more  friendly  than  she  would  have  believed 
possible  toward  Violet  and  Jimmy.  She  had 
been  as  good  as  her  word  and  sent  the  chair. 
Francis,  the  butler,  attended  to  its  safe  deliv- 
ery. He  remained  while  Violet  removed  the 
wrappings. 

"  Mrs.  Finlay  said  as  how  you  would  look 
after  it  yourself,  Miss,"  he  remarked,  in  a  tone 
of  deep  solemnity,  adding,  as  if  from  the  impe- 
rious promptings  of  his  own  conscience,  "  She 
sets  the  world  by  that  chair,  and  I  wouldn't 
have  it  hurt  for  nothing  whatsoever  !  " 

"  It  shan't  be  my  fault  if  it  gets  hurt,  Fran- 
cis," Violet  answered. 

On  the  appointed  day  the  museum  was 
opened.  The  Cody  chair  stood  beside  Mrs. 
Finlay's  on  a  kind  of  dais  of  honor,  and  to 
many  minds  was  the  nobler  chair  of  the  two. 
Like  the  Finlay  chair,  it  was  of  imposing  pro- 
portions. Its  substance  was  mahogany,  and  — 
again  like  the  Finlay  chair  —  it  had  arms.  In- 
deed, at  first  view  there  was  a  general  resem- 
blance of  form,  if  not  of  color,  between  the  two 
chairs,  although  that  of  Mrs.  Finlay  was  orna- 


118  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

men  ted  with  florid  carving  as  behooved  an  Eliz- 
abethan chair,  while  the  lines  of  the  other  were 
chastely  plain. 

From  the  first  the  exhibition  was  a  triumph. 
It  went  victoriously  on  to  its  close.  One  day, 
somewhere  near  the  middle  of  its  career,  Violet 
Durham  walked  through  it  with  her  mother. 
The  rooms  were  almost  empty,  for  the  time 
was  early  in  the  morning.  The  two  women 
paused  before  a  screen  of  Mrs.  Finlay's,  a  mar- 
vel of  embroidery  on  dull  gold  plush. 

"  Hasn't  she  ravishing  taste?"  said  Violet; 
"all  her  things  are  so  lovely.  Why  did  fate 
direct  Mrs.  Cody  to  hang  that  horror  of  a  crazy- 
quilt  dh-ectly  over  it  ?  Mrs.  Finlay  will  faint 
when  she  sees  it ;  it  will  be  the  last  straw.  I 
wish  you  could  see  her  in  the  committees,  so 
disgusted  with  our  vulgarities,  but  so  invincibly 
polite.  She  never  says  a  word,  but  anything 
more  deadly  superior  than  her  silence  I  never 
did  encounter.  I  never  am  with  her,  anyhow, 
that  I  don't  feel  myself  so  hopelessly  provincial 
that  I  almost  don't  want  to  live." 

"  You  are  unjust,  Violet,"  said  Mrs.  Durham, 
a  placid  gentlewoman,  with  soft  gray  hair  and 
a  grave  sweet  smile ;  "  Mrs.  Finlay  is  n't  a  bit 
of  a  snob  "  — 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  she  is.  What  I  do  think 
is  that  she  is  rather  narrow-minded.     She  can't 


o 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    119 

conceive  of  people  being  nice  who  are  n't  nice 
in  just  her  way,  who  haven't  just  such  man- 
ners, for  instance,  and  just  such  ways  of  think- 
ing, and  have  n't  been  to  Europe  just  so  many 
times.  Tom  deserves  a  woman  cut  on  a  larger 
pattern.     It  makes  it  hard  for  him." 

"  He  seems  perfectly  satisfied,"  said  Mrs. 
Durham,  smiling.     And  then  they  passed  on. 

Now,  Mrs.  Finlay  was  behind  the  screen. 
It  was  purely  an  accident.  She  happened  to 
be  standing  there  looking  at  some  articles  on 
the  wall.  She  did  not  think  of  their  discussing 
any  personal  matter,  and  after  they  had  begun 
to  speak  and  she  understood,  she  was  too  sur- 
prised and  embarrassed  to  go  forward. 

The  conversation  was  a  revelation.  Her  first 
emotion  was  a  shock.  She  felt  as  though  she 
had  been  shown  to  be  brutally  rude.  True,  she 
did  believe  her  ways  of  living  and  thinking 
vastly  better  than  those  of  a  country  town  ; 
but  her  sense  of  superiority  was  so  deeply  rooted 
that  it  was  hardly  visible  to  her  own  conscious- 
ness ;  to  manifest  it  to  its  objects  seemed  to 
her  unutterably  indelicate.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning  as  she  stepped  forth  from  her  involun- 
tary hiding-place. 

Was  she  narrow-minded,  she  who  prided  her- 
self upon  her  cosmopolitan  toleration?  Had 
her  distaste  for  life  in  Wrenham  made  it  hard 


120  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

for  Tom  ?  Did  he  think  her  narrow-minded  ? 
Such  thoughts  made  her  miserable  for  days. 
"  The  worst  of  it,  too,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  is 
that  it  is  no  use  my  trying  to  pacify  them. 
Whatever  I  do,  they  are  bound  to  misunder- 
stand me  !  "  Nevertheless,  she  went  again  and 
still  another  time  to  the  museum.  The  chil- 
dren went,  and  Tom  and  Francis,  and  John 
Rogers  (who  was  very  much  bored),  and  Elise, 
Mrs.  Finlay's  maid,  and  the  cook,  and  the  other 
maids,  and  the  gardener  with  all  his  family. 
"  I  will  say  she  spends  her  money  on  us,"  said 
Mrs.  Cody. 

To  the  very  end  the  weather  was  propitious ; 
but  the  day  after,  the  clouds  distilled  a  gentle, 
unremitting  drizzle.  Most  of  the  owners  of  ar- 
ticles sent  for  them  notwithstanding.  Francis 
and  John  Rogers  appeared  at  five  o'clock,  hav- 
ing waited  until  then  in  the  vain  hope  of  sun- 
shine. They  took  the  pictures  and  the  china, 
but  there  was  not  room  for  the  chair.  There- 
fore they  wrapped  it  in  the  tarpaulin  they  had 
brought  and  left  it  in  Violet's  charge  —  Francis 
saying,  with  his  air  of  decent  gloom,  "  Mrs. 
Finlay  told  me  to  bring  the  pictures  first  and 
take  the  chair  on  another  load.  I  '11  be  back 
to-night  if  I  can.  Are  i/ou  going  to  stay  here, 
may  I  ask,  Miss  ?  " 

"  I  shall  stay  until  dark,  Francis ;  but  Judson 


will  be  here  all  night. 


j> 


MRS.  FINLAYS  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    121 

Francis  turned  a  gloomy  eye  upon  old  Judson, 
who  was  shambling  about,  getting  Mrs.  Cody's 
property  together. 

"  Thank  you,  Miss  ;  but  I  'd  rather  come 
back  if  I  can,"  said  he. 

"  Now,  I  wonder,"  said  Violet  to  Jimmy 
Hubbard,  later,  "  I  wonder  what  he  meant  by 
that:' 

Old  Judson  had  gone  up-stairs,  the  other  peo- 
ple had  gone  home,  and  they  were  alone  in  the 
room. 

"  Ask  me  an  easier  one,"  said  Jimmy. 

"  He  is  sober  enough  to-night,  is  n't  he  ?  " 
Violet  asked,  looking  up  into  Jimmy's  face  with 
that  anxious  reliance  on  the  masculine  judgment 
in  such  matters  which  confirms  a  boy's  opinion 
of  his  sex. 

"  Oh,  straight  as  a  string,"  said  Jimmy,  re- 
assuringly ;  ''  but  he  was  on  a  toot  Thursday, 
if  you  want  to  know.  Say,  Judson,  come  down 
and  light  up." 

Judson  lighted  a  single  burner,  and  listened 
silently  to  Violet's  warnings  and  injunctions, 
scowling  to  himself.  Then  Jimmy  and  she 
went  home.  The  last  thing  they  noticed  in  the 
room  was  a  group  of  the  two  chairs,  standing 
on  their  dais,  island-wise,  amid  a  sea  of  crum- 
pled wrapping-paper.  Mrs.  Cody's  chair  was 
undraped,  but  Mrs.  Finlay's,  in  its  white  tar- 
paulin, looked  like  a  clumsy  ghost. 


122  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

By  this  time  the  rain  had  ceased  and  the 
stars  were  shining.  They  walked  to  Mrs.  Dur- 
ham's house  very  cheerfully.  Jimmy  was  pre- 
vailed upon  to  enter  and  be  refreshed  with  tea. 
Perhaps  an  hour  had  passed  before  they  were 
startled  by  the  clangor  of  bells. 

"-  Fire !  "  cried  Violet. 

"  Hope  it  ain't  ws .'  "  said  Jimmy,  with  more 
good-will  than  grammar. 

The  Wrenham  fire-bells  rang  in  a  startling 
but  not  systematic  fashion,  as  fast  as  they  could 
go  ;  and  the  fire  companies  —  volunteers,  mostly 
of  tender  years  —  assembled  in  their  respective 
engine-houses,  and  ran  about  the  streets  inquir- 
ing for  the  fire  until  it  made  enough  headway 
to  be  seen.  The  bells  themselves  afforded  no 
clew.  Jimmy  ran  out  into  the  street  for  infor- 
mation, at  the  same  time  yelling  "  Fire  !  "  at 
the  top  of  his  voice.  "  Fire  !  fire  !  Say,  Mis- 
ter, where  's  the  fire  ?  " 

"  Cass  street,"  yelled  back  a  running  boy ; 
"  Cody's  old  grocery  store." 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Durham  from  the  door- 
way, "  the  museum  !     Violet  "  — 

But  Violet  was  gone.  With  the  first  word 
she  had  sped  swiftly  after  Jimmy,  nor  did  she 
stop  until  they  saw  the  smoke  pouring  out  of 
the  museum  windows. 

*'  Mrs.  Finlay's  chair  !  "  she  gasped;  "  Jim- 
my, we  must  save  it !  '* 


o 


MRS.  FIN  LAYS  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    123 

"  All  right,"  said  Jimmy ;  "  just  you  wait !  " 
He  dashed  through  the  crowd  that  shouted  af- 
ter him  :  ''  Come  back  ! "  "  The  door 's  locked." 
"  It 's  all  afire  !  "  Unheeding,  he  unlocked  the 
door  —  he  had  his  mother's  key  with  him 
—  and  ran  into  the  smoke.  Horrible  smoke  it 
was  —  dense,  blinding,  stifling.  His  eyes  were 
stung  ;  his  ears  stunned  ;  the  murky  air  seemed 
to  roar  all  about  him.  But  he  saw  the  white 
tarpaulin  through  his  smoky  tears,  and  stag- 
gered up  to  it.  Somebody  caught  the  other 
side  :  they  dragged  the  chair  out  together  —  not 
a  second  too  soon,  for  the  wainscoting  of  the 
room  was  blazing.  Safe  on  the  sidewalk,  he 
saw  that  his  unknown  helper  was  Violet,  who 
said :  — 

"  We  're  a  couple  of  fools,  but  we  've  saved 
the  chair.     Now,  let  us  get  it  out  of  the  way  !  " 

They  carried  it  across  the  street  just  in  time 
to  avoid  the  charge  of  a  fire  company.  They 
came  with  a  rush  and  a  cheer,  and  with  their 
coming  the  whole  street  brightened  into  a  kind 
of  lurid  gayety.  The  flames  leaped  up  in  the 
museum  windows.  Up-stairs,  where  the  fire  had 
started,  they  were  all  aglow.  In  the  street,  the 
boys  were  shouting,  the  water  splashing,  the 
firemen  swearing,  and  apparently  everybody 
ordering  somebody  else  to  do  something.  Violet 
scanned  the  crowd,  trying  to  discover  old  Jud- 


124  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

son  ;  but  she  saw  no  sign  of  that  aged  reprobate, 
and  began  to  fear  he  was  burning  up  in  the 
building.  Suddenly,  two  men  laid  hands  on 
the  chair.  One  of  them  spoke  —  roughly,  but 
not  unkindly  :  — 

"  You  '11  have  to  get  outer  this,  ma'am  :  they 
want  to  lay  the  hose  here.  Here,  hurry  up ! 
This  way ! " 

Resolutely  clinging  to  the  chair,  Violet  and 
Jimmy  were  pushed  down  the  street. 

"  We  '11  have  to  carry  the  chair  home  our- 
selves, Jimmy,"  said  Violet ;  "there's  no  use 
trying  to  look  for  a  wagon  —  good  gracious  !  " 

"  What  's  the  matter  ?  "  cried  Jimmy. 
"  Confound  the  fools  !  " 

It  was  only  that  some  sportive  souls  among 
the  firemen  had  turned  the  hose  on  their  com- 
rades over  the  street ;  Violet  and  Jimmy,  be- 
ing in  a  direct  line  with  the  comrades,  were 
drenched  to  the  skin. 

"  Nothing  but  water,"  said  Violet ;  "  but  I 
never  did  fancy  shower-baths.  Jimmy,  the  man 
was  right ;  we  'd  better  get  away  from  here." 

Jimmy  looked  at  the  chair.  "  It 's  awful 
heavy  ;  let  's  leave  it  in  a  saloon  ;  they  're 
open." 

"Never,"  said  Violet;  "it's  not  going  out 
of  my  sight  again.  Here,  boy,"  addressing  a 
stout  lad  in  the  crowd,  "  I  '11  give  you  a  dollar 
if  you  '11  help  us  carry  this  chair  home." 


MRS.  FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.     125 

"  All  right !  "  said  the  boy. 

He  grinned  at  Jimmy,  whom  he  knew,  and 
took  the  chair  by  the  arm.  They  forced  their 
way  to  the  corner.  The  boy's  stout  lungs  and 
ready  profanity  cleared  a  passage,  assisted  as 
they  were  by  his  skillful  use  of  the  chair  cor- 
ners as  a  battering-ram.  Violet  was  a  devout 
churchwoman,  but  she  did  not  tell  him  not  to 
swear;  she  had  a  desperate  feeling  that  any- 
thing was  allowable,  in  the  present  crisis,  to 
rescue  the  chair.  Torn,  dishevelled,  dripping 
with  muddy  water,  the  three  —  say  rather  the 
four,  for  does  not  the  chair  count  as  one  ?  — 
emerged  from  the  din  into  the  quiet  and  starlit 
streets  where  there  was  no  fire.  Violet's  own 
plight  was  deplorable.  Little  streams  of  water 
drained  from  her  soaked  skirts ;  her  hat  was 
crushed  into  a  shapeless  bunch,  through  an  un- 
intentional collision  with  a  hook-and-ladder  com- 
pany. She  had  a  great  bruise  on  her  cheek 
(side  lunge  of  the  chair),  and  a  never  explained 
scratch  across  her  nose.  But  she  was  in  high 
spirits  —  her  wooden  ward  was  safe  !  Almost 
jubilantly  she  paid  the  boy  at  Mrs.  Durham's 
gate  ;  she  answered  her  mother's  anxious  in- 
quiries with  a  kiss  and  a  laugh. 

"  I  've  been  a  fireman,  mamma ;  I  've  helped 
save  portable  property.  Jimmy,  take  off  the 
tarpaulin,  please." 


126  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Jimmy  pulled  it  off  with  a  flourish  ;  then  he 
gave  a  shout :  "  Oh,  thunder !  " 

Violet  uttered  a  deep  groan.  She  leaned 
against  the  side  of  the  house  like  one  about  to 
faint.  Poor  Mrs.  Durham  caught  her  in  her 
arms. 

"  Oh,  it  's  nothing,  mamma,"  said  Violet,  in 
a  hollow  voice ;  "  only,  we  've  made  a  mistake, 
and  saved  the  wrong  chair !  " 

I  draw  a  veil  over  the  remainder  of  the  night. 

The  explanation  is  simple  enough.  Old  Jud- 
son  had  beguiled  the  tedium  of  the  night- 
watches  with  whiskey.  After  he  had  pretty 
well  drowned  his  feeble  wits,  he  took  a  notion 
to  inspect  the  chairs,  and  put  the  tarpaulin  on 
Mrs.  Cody's  chair.  Then  he  departed  to  get 
more  whiskey,  leaving  bis  lighted  pipe  up-stairs, 
among  the  wrapping-papers.  And  Mrs.  Fin- 
lay's  idol  was  ashes ! 

Mrs.  Finlay  had  a  headache  the  night  of  the 
fire,  and  slept  undisturbed  through  the  fire-bells. 
Languid  but  unsuspecting,  she  came  down  to  a 
late  breakfast.  Tom  and  the  boys  were  gone, 
but  Francis  was  in  waiting,  looking  absolutely 
tragic  in  his  solemnity.  Mrs.  Finlay  took  up 
the  Wrenham  paper.  Francis,  with  a  plate  of 
oatmeal  in  one  hand  and  the  cream-jug  in  the 


MRS.   FIN  LAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    127 

other,  stood  watching  her.  "  Ah  !  "  cried  Mrs. 
Finlay.  She  held  the  paper  higher;  Francis 
could  not  see  her  face.  He  made  a  gesture  of 
despair  with  the  cream- jug. 

"  Were  you  at  the  fire  last  night,  Francis  ?  " 
came  from  behind  the  paper. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  was,  ma'am,"  said  Francis, 
his  pent-up  feelings  relieving  themselves  in  a 
heavy  and  irrepressible  sigh.  "  It  ain't  no  use, 
ma'am ;  it 's  all  gone !  When  I  got  there, 
everything  was  blazing.  And  they  say,  ma'am, 
the  janitor  set  it  afire  hisself .  He  was  a-reeling 
round  there  drunk  's  a  lord  —  begging  your 
pardon,  ma'am  ;  and  he  locked  the  door,  so  they 
could  n't  get  in  !  " 

Mrs.  Finlay  put  the  paper  down.  She  might 
have  been  a  shade  paler,  but  Francis  could  see 
no  change  in  her  expression.  Yet,  behind  this 
calm  mask  a  sharp  struggle  was  going  on.  This 
stupid  and  barbarous  town,  after  railing  at  her 
and  slandering  her  for  years,  had  capped  its 
exasperations  by  destroying  her  most  precious 
possession  !  Her  nerves  tingled  with  irritation. 
But  the  blood  of  generations  of  Puritans  did 
not  flow  in  Emily  Finlay's  veins  for  nothing. 
She  had  as  robust  a  conscience  as  the  best  of 
them,  although  it  was  illumined  by  most  un- 
puritanic  lights.  After  all,  she  reasoned,  the 
Wrenham   people   had   burned   up   their  own 


128  KNITTERS  IN   THE  SUN. 

treasures  as  well  as  hers ;  certainly,  they  had 
intended  no  harm. 

"  Miss  Durham,"  announced  Francis,  inter- 
rupting the  inward  colloquy  between  anger  and 
justice. 

"  Show  her  in  here,"  said  Mrs.  Finlay.  She 
remembered  that  Violet  had  opposed  old  Jud- 
son's  appointment,  and  greeted  her  with  actual 
warmth. 

"  You  see,  I  know  all,"  she  said,  touching 
the  newspaper.     "  I  am  so  very  sorry  for  you." 

Violet  looked  pale  and  dejected  ;  she  did  not 
lift  her  eyes ;  her  voice  trembled  as  she  an- 
swered :  — 

"  But  your  chair  is  gone ;  I  was  down  there 
this  morning,  and  could  n't  find  even  a  piece  of 
it.     And  we  persuaded  you  to  send  it !  " 

"  But  you  could  n't  know  what  was  to  hap- 
pen," said  Mrs.  Finlay,  gently ;  "  it  was  n't 
your  fault "  — 

"  Master  James  Hubbard,"  said  Francis,  ap- 
pearing again  in  the  door-way.  Jimmy  had 
unceremoniously  followed  the  butler,  and  was 
at  his  heels.  He  began  a  carefully  conned 
speech  in  breathless  haste.  He  was  sorry  to 
come  so  early  in  the  morning ;  but  he  saw 
Miss  Durham  and  wanted  to  come,  also  "  be- 
cause," cried  Master  Jimmy,  growing  red  in  the 
face  and  forgetting  his  speech,   "  I  knew  she 


MRS.   FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.    129 

would  n't  say  anything  about  what  she  did,  and 
it  was  all  old  Judson's  fault,  'cause  he  changed 
the  tarpaulin,  and  we  couldn't  see  through  the 
smoke,  and  we  hauled  it  out,  and  she  got  wet 
through,  and  the  hose-cart  smashed  her  hat,  and 
Fritz  Miiller  and  she  and  me,  we  carried  it  to 
her  house,  and  then,  after  all,  it  was  Mrs.  Cody's 
chair !  " 

Mrs.  Finlay  listened  with  evident  emotion. 

"Do  you  mean  you  ran  into  the  burning 
building  for  my  chair  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Risked 
your  lives  ?  " 

*'  That 's  about  the  size  of  it,"  said  Jimmy. 
Then  more  in  detail  he  recounted  the  night's 
adventures.  When  he  finished,  Mrs.  Finlay 
turned  to  Violet. 

"  How  brave  you  were  ! "  she  exclaimed. 

"  I  promised  to  take  care  of  the  chair,"  said 
Violet,  with  a  little  rueful  smile,  "  and  you  see 
I  failed,  after  all." 

"  What  could  you  have  done  more  ?  " 

"  Well,  we  might  have  picked  out  the  right 
chair,  you  know,"  said  Jimmy,  impartially ; 
"  but  it  was  so  smoky." 

"  You  took  the  one  with  the  tarpaulin ;  you 
could  n't  know.  Believe  me,  I  am  most  grate- 
ful for  —  why.  Miss  Durham  !  " 

For  Violet,  overcome  by  the  long  strain  on 
her  nerves,  and  the  reaction  after  a  night  spent 


130  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

in  picturing  her  reception,  eacli  picture  por- 
traying more  humiliating  explanations  than  the 
last,  had  sunk  into  a  chair  and  turned  very 
white.  Jimmy,  in  distress,  threw  the  contents 
of  the  cream-jug  in  her  face ;  happily  the  jug 
was  almost  empty,  and  Mrs.  Finlay  instantly 
repaired  damages  with  a  finger-bowl. 

"Don't  —  bother,"  implored  Violet  faintly; 
"  I  'm  not  going  to  —  do  anything.  But  I  was 
so  sorry,  and  you  are  so  kind,  and  it  is  all  so 

—  different ! " 

"  We  thought  you  'd  be  awful  mad,"  Jimmy 
explained,  with  calm  suavity. 

"We  were  unjust  to  you,"  said  Violet;  "  I 

—  I  think  I  have  always  been  unjust  to  you." 

"  We  have  been  unjust  to  each  other,"  an- 
swered Mrs.  Finlay.  "  Can't  we  try  all  our 
acquaintance  over  again,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

She  looked  up  into  Violet's  face  with  a 
charming  smile,  but  her  eyes  were  wet ;  and 
when  Violet  took  the  hand  that  was  extended 
to  her,  she  could  not  speak  because  of  the  lump 
in  her  throat. 

Then  Jimmy,  who  had  been  absorbed  in 
meditation,  remarked :  — 

"  Well,  I  guess  there  won't  be  any  trouble 
'bout  getting  the  insurance ;  that 's  one  good 
thin  or 


Violet  must  either  laugh  or  cry ;  it  was  just 


MRS.    FINLAY'S  ELIZABETHAN  CHAIR.     131 

as  well  that  she  should  laugh.  Mrs.  Finlay 
laughed  with  her.  "  And  then,"  said  Jimmy, 
describing  the  interview  to  his  mother  afterward, 
"  then  Mr.  Finlay  came  in,  and  they  wanted  us 
to  sit  down  and  have  breakfast ;  but  of  course 
I  would  n't.  And,  mother,  I  'm  going  there 
to  luncheon  to-morrow.  And  I  don't  believe 
Mrs.  Finlav  cared  much  about  the  chair,  'cause 
she  didn't  say  another  word  about  it." 

When  they  were  all  gone,  Tom  Finlay  put 
his  arm  around  his  wife's  waist.  He  was  smil- 
ing ;  but,  for  once,  she  found  nothing  to  quar- 
rel with  in  his  smile.     He  only  said  :  — 

"  Milly,  I  was  in  the  conservatory,  and  heard 
it  all.     I  am  tremendously  proud  of  you." 

"  Because  I  was  n't  cross  ? "  said  Emily, 
"  But  I  had  no  right  to  be  cross." 

"  Milly,  you  are  a  very  just  woman." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Tom,"  cried  his  wife,  with 
a  quick  movement ;  "  I  have  been  horrid  about 
Wrenham  and  about  —  about  Miss  Durham. 
Tom,  I  wish  you  had  told  me  that  you  asked 
her  to  marry  you." 

Tom  opened  his  eyes. 

"  But  I  never  did,  Milly.  I  thought  of  doing 
it  once ;  but  I  found  out  she  liked  somebody 
else  better,  so  I  held  my  tongue.  Then  I  saw 
you,  and  was  glad  enough  I  had.  Milly,  you 
weren't  "  — 

"  Yes,  I  was,  Tom,"  murmured  Emily,  hid- 


132  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

ing  her  head  on  his  shoulder ;  "  I  was  just  so 
stupid." 

Tom  held  her  close  ;  she  felt  the  quickened 
beating  of  his  heart,  and  she  said  :  — 

"  I  shall  never  be  —  stupid  about  Miss  Dur- 
ham again.  She  is  so  nice,  and  she  was  so 
brave  about  the  chair." 

"The  poor  chair!"  said  Tom.  "  Milly,  I 
am  sorry." 

Mrs.  Finlay  pulled  her  husband's  head  down 
to  her  own  level  and  kissed  his  hair. 

"  If  you  are  sorry,  Tom,"  she  whispered, 
"  then  I  do  not  mind." 

Nevertheless  she  is  not  ungrateful  to  the 
chair's  memory.  It  is  perhaps  a  fanciful  no- 
tion, but  she  feels  as  though  the  chair  died  for 
her  happiness.  A  water-color  sketch  of  it 
hangs  in  her  chamber,  and  she  has,  when  she 
looks  at  it,  an  emotion  of  almost  personal  grat- 
itude. She  returned  the  insurance  money 
(which  duly  came  to  her)  to  the  managers  of 
the  museum,  accompanying  the  money  with 
a  sympathetic  note.  The  note  made  a  favor- 
able impression.  Wrenham  has  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  Mrs.  Finlay  has  her  good 
points.  It  only  remains  to  add  that  Tom  Fin- 
lay has  no  cause  to  complain  of  his  wife's  cool- 
ness to  the  Durhams ;  and  that  James  Hub- 
bard is  the  proud  possessor  of  a  new  and  most 
gorgeous  gold  watch. 


o 


FATHER  QUINNAILON'S  CONVERT. 

A    STUDY. 

It  was  a  very  modest  sign  :  dingy  gilt  letters 
on  a  rusty  black  ground,  the  entire  sign  being 
not  larger  in  area  than  two  feet  by  one ;  and  it 
hung,  moreover,  in  a  helpless,  one-sided,  mutely- 
appealing  fashion  by  a  single  corner  nail.  Why 
then  did  the  handsome  young  man  who  was 
passing  give  it  a  vicious  twist  with  his  cane,  and 
send  the  announcement  of  the  "  Office  of  the 
Woman's  Suffrage  Association  "  into  the  mud 
of  the  street  ?  Being  a  western  street,  the  mud 
was  deep.  "You  be  hanged!"  muttered  the 
young  man  —  which,  indeed,  was  just  what  the 
sign  needed ;  but  he  did  not  hang  it.  He  walked 
on  with  a  little  irritable  laugh  and  turned  down 
a  side  street,  when,  seeing  no  one  near  enough 
to  observe  him,  he  soon  allowed  the  dejection 
of  his  feelings  to  shape  his  expression.  The 
cause  of  his  melancholy  mood  was  that  frequent 
disturber  of  a  lover's  peace,  a  quarrel  with  his 
mistress.  The  quarrel  was  no  transient  dis- 
agreement ;  it  was  a  final  rupture.  Six  times 
since   the    morning  mail  had  Harold  Durham 


134  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN 

read  a  certain  note  which  he  then  received ;  now 
he  was  repeating  its  contents  from  memory ; 
certainly  they  showed  no  indecision  in  the 
writer. 

I  have  read  your  letter  carefully.  I  cannot 
say  anything  but  what  I  have  said  before  so 
often  you  must  be  tired.  I  do  not  blame  you, 
Harold,  that  you  are  not  willing  to  have  your 
wife  feel  so  differently  from  you  ;  but  you  must 
not  blame  me,  either,  if  I  cannot  give  up  my 
friends  and  my  convictions  for  you.  A  woman 
has  a  sense  of  honor  as  well  as  a  man,  and  I 
cannot  do  it,  Harold.  But  I  do  not  mean  to 
reproach  you.  I  never  had  the  shadow  of  a 
claim  on  you,  you  know.  You  are  quite  free. 
I  have  sent  you  back  your  letters  and  your  ring. 
And  please  believe  that  I  shall  always  remain 
Your  faithful  friend, 

Lillian  S.  Maine. 

"  Then  there  's  a  postscript,"  continued  the 
young  man,  "  about  hoping  she  has  n't  been 
abrupt  and  hoping  I  will  be  happy.  Happy  ! 
Oh,  yes."  —  Here  Harold  broke  off  his  reflec- 
tions to  scowl  ferociousl}^  at  a  small  boot-black 
and  shout,  "  JVo  " ;  but  before  the  boy  could 
turn  he  stopped  him.  "  Yes,  I  do,  too  ;  only  be 
quick  about  it !  "  He  did  not  really  want  his 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S  CONVERT.     135 

boots  blacked  (in  truth  they  had  been  blacked 
ten  minutes  before  this  episode,  for  he  was  on 
his  way  to  a  friend's  house),  but  he  wanted  to 
make  amends  for  his  harshness  to  a  child,  and 
some  scruples  concerning  almsgiving  forbade 
the  easier  device  of  a  quarter.  The  act  was 
trivial,  yet  a  clew  to  Harold's  character.  He 
had  a  fervid  temperament  which  his  will  kept 
in  rigid  retirement,  but  sometimes  it  escaped 
and  hurried  him  into  action,  in  which  cases  his 
atonement  was  prone  to  be  as  impetuous  as  his 
offense.  He  looked  after  the  boy  when  he 
dashed  away,  having  finished  the  merest  pre- 
tense of  blacking.  "  Poor  little  rat,"  he  thought ; 
"  after  all,  it  is  harder  lines  for  him  than  for 
me.  If  a  man  can  only  do  something  perma- 
nent for  that  crowd,  he  ought  not  to  make  a  row 
if  he  does  n't  get  all  the  other  things  he  asks  of 
life." 

Pursuing  this  elevating  strain  of  meditation, 
Harold  resolved  to  waste  no  more  moans  over 
his  ruined  hopes,  but,  dismissing  importunate 
visions  of  a  noble,  candid  face  and  classic  head, 
with  its  thick  brown  braids,  to  fix  his  mind  upon 
the  object  of  his  visit  to  Xerxes ;  namely,  tene- 
ment houses.  "Drains,"  said  Harold  sternly, 
"  drains  ;  they  must  be  settled  !  "  And  as  a 
judicious  initiative  to  the  settlement  of  drains 
he    leaned   against   a   fence,  and  taking  Miss 


136  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Maine's  letter  out  of  his  pocket  he  proceeded  to 
give  it  a  seventh  reading. 

It  is  as  good  a  time  as  any  to  draw  his  picture. 
His  dress,  his  tall,  athletic  figure,  his  fresh  com- 
plexion, and  his  reddish-blonde  beard  parted  in 
the  centre  lent  his  presence  an  English  air,  and 
he  spoke  with  an  English  accent ;  he  was,  how- 
ever, an  American,  the  son  of  a  Chicago  pork 
packer   and   a  Vermont   school-teacher.     His 
father  was  a  jovial,  shrewd,  strong-willed,  faith- 
ful man  who  had  inherited  a  small  fortune  and 
had  made  it  a  great  one.     His  mother  was  a 
gentle  and  graceful  woman  who  had  almost  for- 
gotten that  she  was   not  born   rich.     She  had 
very  soft,  winning  manners,  dressed  perfectly, 
and   had   the   most   harmoniously  picturesque 
house   in  Chicago.     Mrs.  Durham  had  visited 
England  three  times  ;  the  first  time  she  brought 
back  her  butler,  the  second  time  her  coachman, 
the   third    time   her   invaluable    housekeeper, 
"  Becket."     "  Now  I  feel  that  I  can  live^''  she 
said  confidentially.     Harold  was  the  only  child. 
It  was  Mrs.  Durham's  idea  to  send  him  to  Eng- 
land ;  she  wanted  him  to  go  to  Eton  first,  then 
to    Oxford ;    but   I   believe  they  compromised 
upon  Phillips  Academy  and  Oxford. 

Meanwhile  Mr.  Durham  had  retired  from 
business  under  the  influence  of  a  siege  of  head- 
ache and  his  wife's  entreaties,  and  when  Harold 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    137 

returned  home  lie  found  him  in  a  deplorable 
state  of  anxious  laziness.  Harold  most  unex- 
pectedly came  to  his  relief  by  plunging  into 
philanthropy  and  tenement  houses.  Mr.  Dur- 
ham saw  that  the  tenement  houses  paid,  while 
Harold,  who  had  studied  architecture  and  sani- 
tary science  and  political  economy  for  no  other 
purpose,  as  he  told  his  father,  planned  the 
buildings. 

He  quite  agreed  with  his  father  that  the 
houses  must  be  made  to  pay  a  fair  interest  on 
the  money. 

"  We  shall  do  no  good  with  it  as  a  charity," 
he  used  to  say,  "  but  if  we  can  make  decent 
dwellings  for  the  working  classes  a  paying  in- 
vestment, we  shall  have  plenty  of  people  follow- 
ing our  example.  And  that  is  what  we  want. 
We  want  to  make  these  vile  fire»traps  and  fever- 
holes  unrentable  !  " 

It  will  be  seen  that  Harold  had  the  hope  as 
well  as  the  courage  of  his  opinions.  One  might 
fancy  that  he  would  have  been  tolerably  busy, 
what  with  overseeing  building,  collecting  rents, 
helping  his  tenants  to  help  themselves,  and 
writing  explanations  of  the  model  tenement 
scheme  to  the  newspapers ;  but  he  was  a  young 
man  of  immense  energy,  he  felt  that  his  country 
as  well  as  the  poor  needed  him,  and  he  took  an 
active   interest  in   politics.     He   made  quite  a 


138  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

little  oration  to  his  father  when  the  subject  was 
first  mentioned  between  them. 

"  What  do  we  most  need  in  America  ?  "  he 
cried.  "  That  gentlemen  should  enter  politics  ! 
We  leave  them  to  the  lower  classes,  and  see  the 
scoundrelly  cads  who  represent  us  in  Congress  ! 
I  don't  wonder  they  sneer  at  us  in  Europe. 
The  class  who  are  our  natural  leaders,  who  have 
the  leisure  to  study  the  theory  of  civilization 
and  find  out  what  government  can  and  what  it 
can't  do,  they  stay  at  home  for  fear  of  a  little 
mud  throwing !  I  tell  you  it 's  a  cowardly 
shame ! "  shouted  Harold,  growing  hot  and 
bringing  his  fist  down  on  the  table  with  a  bang. 

"  Well,  don't  break  things,  dear,  if  it  is  !  " 
said  his  mother,  in  some  alarm.  There  was  a 
real  Palissy  vase  on  that  table  and  it  was  tot- 
tering frightfully. 

Mr.  Durham  chuckled,  but  said  nothing. 
His  son's  English  social  tone,  his  vehemence, 
and  his  astounding  political  innocence  tickled 
the  elder  man's  sense  of  humor.  "He  's  a  good 
fellow,"  thought  Mr.  Durham,  "  and  he  '11  get 
over  his  nonsense  in  a  little  while.  Give  him 
his  head  a  while,  and  let  him  fool  about  the 
primaries  and  vote  independent  tickets  till  he's 
tired.  He  '11  come  out  all  right,  and  there  ain't 
a  bit  of  danger  of  his  being  elected  to  any- 
thing !  " 


o 


FATHER  QUINNAILON'S  CONVERT.     139 

Mrs.  Durham  took  Harold  much  more  se- 
riously ;  his  enthusiasm,  to  be  sure,  was  rather 
alarming  in  a  drawing-room,  but  that  was  a 
trifling  blemish ;  she  admired  the  English  tone ; 
Harold's  sentiments,  his  manners,  the  very  ris- 
ing inflections  of  his  voice  at  the  close  of  his 
sentences  thrilled  her  heart  with  an  exquisite 
vanity ;  she  loved  her  husband,  but  her  son  was 
her  realized  ideal.  At  last,  she  felt  that  she 
could  crush  Mrs.  Maine.  A  grandmother  who 
had  been  a  Van  Rensselaer  and  a  sister  who 
had  crossed  the  Atlantic  eighteen  times  could 
never  stand  up  against  a  son  educated  at  Ox- 
ford, with  his  English  training  visible  in  every 
bow  and  audible  in  every  question  that  he  asked. 

It  was  a  natural  consequence  of  such  a  reverie 
that  Mrs.  Durham  should  take  Harold  over  to 
the  Maines,  that  same  evening.  Harold  found 
a  tall  young  woman,  handsome  as  Diana,  in- 
stead of  the  merry  little  girl  who  had  skated 
and  climbed  trees  with  him  ten  years  ago.  He 
instantly  discovered  that  he  had  loved  her  all 
his  life,  and  told  her  so  two  months  later.  Lily 
Maine  had  been  cruel  enough  to  doubt  the  du- 
ration of  his  feeling,  and  had  refused  to  be  posi- 
tively his  promised  wife  until  he  had  known 
her  lonsjer:  but  she  had  admitted  what  she 
styled  a  "partiality"  for  him  and  had  consented 
to  wear  his  ring,  although  she  would  not  let 


140  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

him  bu}'  her  one.  In  short,  they  finally  arrived 
at  an  "  understanding "  which  was  to  be  an 
"  engagement  "  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Harold 
had  never  been  so  happy  in  his  life ;  he  thought 
Lily  more  charming  every  day. 

He  was  not  alone  in  this  opinion  ;  few  people 
knew  Miss  Maine  without  feeling  the  subtle  at- 
traction of  her  mingled  sincerity  and  sympathy. 
There  are  many  sincere  people  in  the  world, 
and  many  sympathetic  people  ;  but  the  sincere 
people  are  apt  to  be  disagreeable,  and  the  sym- 
pathetic people  are  apt  to  lie,  more  or  less. 
Lily,  while  she  was  absolutely  truthful,  knew 
how  to  be  silent,  and  her  interest  in  others' 
goodness  or  sorrow  was  too  quick  to  need  to  be 
whipped  up  by  her  politeness.  As  most  of  us 
are  either  good  or  unhappy,  and  some  of  us  are 
both,  Lily's  interest  had  a  wide  career  before 
it  —  so  wide,  indeed,  that  Mrs.  Maine  shuddered 
over  her  daughter's  disregard  of  the  convention- 
alities. She  used  to  discuss  Lily's  "  eccentri- 
city" with  her  second  daughter,  —  her  husband 
was  dead,  —  always  ending  the  recital  of  her 
grievances  with  the  declaration  that  she  could 
have  borne  anything  better  than  "that  dreadful 
women's  rights  crowd !  " 

Now  I  trust  the  reader  perceives  why  Harold 
flung  the  sign  of  the  Woman's  Suffrage  Associa- 
tion into  the  mire ;  "the  cause  "  had  torn  Lily 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    141 

from  him.  He  was,  on  the  whole,  hi  spite  of 
his  impetuous  nature,  a  very  sweet-tempered  fel- 
low ;  but  he  had  a  touch  of  his  father's  dogged- 
ness,  and  he  cherished  his  few  prejudices.  The 
son  of  his  mother  could  hardly  help  having  an 
intense  dislike  to  anything  harsh  or  coarse  in  a 
woman ;  by  an  easy  transition  his  dislike  was 
transferred  to  a  movement  which  seemed  to  him 
an  effort  to  make  all  women  harsh  and  coarse. 
I  fear  a  visit  which  he  made  the  previous  year 
(I  am  writing  of  1879)  to  Washington,  and  the 
glimpse  he  there  had  of  the  workings  of  the 
cause,  reinforced  his  prejudices.  There  was 
the  usual  delegation  of  ladies  in  the  city,  to 
present  the  claims  of  women  to  the  ballot  be- 
fore Congress.  Harold  attended  one  of  their 
meetings.  Several  ladies  were  speaking  when 
he  entered,  and  because  of  this  circumstance 
he  could  hear  very  little.  Soon  one  enterprising 
speaker  mounted  a  chair,  a  bolder  spirit  climbed 
upon  the  table,  and  the  climax  was  reached 
when  a  strangely  attired  being  —  Harold  sup- 
posed she  was  a  woman  —  put  a  chair  upon  the 
table,  clambered  into  the  chair,  and  screamed 
her  views  above  the  uproar.  Harold  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  went  away. 

He  did  not  know  of  Lily's  opinions  until 
some  two  months  after  he  had  asked  her  to  be 
his  wife.     He  never  suspected  that  a  girl  with 


142  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

so  much  hair  could  be  a  defender  of  the  rights 
of  woman,  and  his  first  intimation  of  such  a  hor- 
rible anomaly  was  the  sight  of  her  name  in  the 
"Times"  as  secretary  of  the  Chicago  branch. 
There  is  no  necessity  of  detailing  the  particu- 
lars of  their  quarrel  —  for  quarrel  it  became  at 
last.  Harold  felt  that  Lily  would  have  given 
up  a  whim  for  his  sake  had  she  loved  him 
deeply ;  Lily  felt  that  she  could  never  again 
respect  herself  if  she  were  to  give  up  her  prin- 
ciples to  secure  her  happiness ;  between  the 
feelings  of  both  they  soon  came  to  bitter  words. 

"  Lily,  if  I  had  heard  j^ou  were  a  Roman 
Catholic  I  could  n't  have  been  more  shocked," 
cried  Harold,  pacing  the  room.  "  It  is  n't  so 
much  the  object  as  the  people,  such  a  horribly 
ill-bred  crowd  !  All  the  crack-brained  women 
I  know  are  shrieking  for  the  suffrage." 

"  They  are  queer,  some  of  them,"  admitted 
Lily,  half  laughing  and  half  sighing,  "  but  you 
know,  Harold,  that  in  all  reforms  odd  people 
come  at  first.  You  should  have  heard  father 
tell  of  the  extraordinary  creatures  who  used  to 
flock  to  the  early  anti-slavery  gatherings.  We 
used  to  entertain  the  brethren  —  such  looking 
people  as  they  were  sometimes  !  And  they 
never  could  eat  things  like  other  people !  " 

"  I  presume  we  shall  have  to  entertain  quite 
as  interesting  specimens,"  retorted  Harold  with 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.     143 

a  sneer;  but  all  the  time  his  heart  had  softened 
over  the  "  we,"  and  he  was  sorely  tempted  to 
surrender  on  the  spot. 

Howeyer,  being  always  on  guard  against  his 
impulses,  he  resisted  temptation  and  took  a 
very  dignified  leave.  It  was  the  day  of  his  de- 
parture for  Xerxes.  Some  tenement  houses  in 
that  thriving  town  had  lately  become  Mr.  Dur- 
ham's property,  and  Harold  was  going  there  to 
superintend  their  transformation  into  the  model 
tenements  of  his  dreams.  He  told  Lily  that 
he  would  call  on  his  way  to  the  depot  to  say 
good-by.  Neither  Lily  nor  he  had  any  reason 
to  suspect  that  Dr,  Jerusha  Dale  would  call 
also ;  nevertheless  he  found  her  overshoes  re- 
posing on  the  tiles  of  the  vestibule.  Even  we 
who  know  and  respect  Dr.  Dale  feel  that  she 
has  not  a  prepossessing  appearance.  She  is  a 
tall  lady,  very  thin  but  prodigiously  muscular ; 
(there  is  a  legend  current  among  her  friends 
that  she  once  knocked  a  rude  medical  student 
down,  and  it  is  certain  that  she  did  collar  a 
drunken  man  who  was  beating  his  wife ;)  her 
dress  never  shows  any  concession  to  the  fashion 
of  the  day,  her  voice  is  loud  and  her  movements 
ungraceful ;  she  wears  her  black  hair  short ; 
and  there  is,  to  be  frank,  a  kind  of  griraness 
about  her  whole  aspect.  Yet  she  is  a  woman 
of  undoubted  talent,  who  half  starved  herself 


144  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

to  learn  her  profession,  and  now  is  continually 
spending  her  knowledge  upon  miserable  men 
and  women  who  cannot  pay  her  fees  ;  she  is 
said  to  be  marvelously  gentle  in  a  sick  room, 
and  her  loud  voice  itself  was  acquired  in  duti- 
fully shouting  at  her  deaf  mother,  whom  she 
keeps  in  great  comfort.  Harold  unfortunately 
knew  nothing  of  her  amiable  traits.  He  shud- 
dered when  he  saw  her  long  form  gradually 
emerge  from  a  Queen  Anne  chair.  *'  What  an 
awful  woman  !  "  he  thought,  as  he  bowed.  She, 
kind  soul,  who  really  loved  Lily,  thought  he 
had  a  good  face ;  and  suspecting  him  to  be 
Lily's  lover  almost  immediately  took  her  leave, 
although  she  had  not  been  in  the  house  ten 
minutes,  and  had  come  six  miles  through  the 
mud  and  rain  solely  to  make  this  one  call. 
Harold  had  not  the  grace  to  recognize  her  con- 
sideration. He  was  furious  when  he  heard  her 
kiss  Lily  in  the  hall ;  and  Lily  on  her  return 
found  him  standing,  hat  in  hand,  by  the  door. 

No,  he  said,  with  an  air  of  distant  politeness, 
he  would  not  take  off  his  overcoat ;  he  had  only 
come  to  say  good-by.  He  was  glad  he  was 
leaving  her  in  such  good  hands ;  he  hoped  she 
would  have  a  pleasant  time  during  his  absence ; 
doubtless  he  should  hear  of  her  through  the 
newspapers  ;  some  speech  — 

"Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  Lily,  trying  to  laugh. 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    145 

"I  am  not  gifted  in  that  way.  I  never  could 
write  an  essay  when  I  was  in  school,  and  I 
should  break  down  if  I  tried  to  read  it,  any- 
how. It  is  in  the  drudgery  of  committees  that 
I  shine." 

"  I  shall  wish  you  much  success  in  commit- 
tees, then,"  said  Harold.  "  Good-by."  He  lifted 
her  hand  coldly  to  his  lips,  and  he  did  not  see 
that  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

The  next  day  he  wrote  her  a  long  letter  from 
Xerxes.  He  begged  her  to  give  up  such  prin- 
ciples and  friends ;  he  made  the  most  moving 
plea  in  his  power,  and  wrote  six  pages  about 
his  love  for  her.  Lily  cried  over  the  letter  all 
night,  and  answered  by  an  appeal  to  his  justice. 
He  wrote  her  (by  the  next  mail)  that  she  did 
not  seem  to  consider  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
principle  with  him,  and  that  he  certainly  never 
could  bring  himself  to  tolerate  Dr.  Jerusha 
Dale  as  one  of  his  wife's  friends.  His  answer 
was  the  letter  \vhich  he  held  in  his  hand. 

He  had  finished  reading  it  now,  and  was  list- 
lessly looking  about  him.  This  was  his  first 
walk  in  that  part  of  Xerxes.  He  did  not  ad- 
mire the  town.  The  slightly  built  houses,  the 
soft  coal  dinginess  everywhere,  and  the  abound- 
ing mud  jarred  on  an  eye  accustomed  to  the 
picturesque  tidiness  of  English  country  towns. 
Harold  never  took  a  walk  that  he  did  not  stum- 


146  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

ble  over  some  broken  board  in  the  wooden  side- 
walks, or  have  a  loose  board  fly  up  in  his  face 
as  he  trod  upon  it,  or  sink  up  to  his  ankles  in 
the  black  slime  of  a  crossing.  The  number  of 
unprotected  cows,  geese,  and  pigs  which  he  met 
also  amazed  him  ;  and  he  found  stagnant  pools 
of  water  in  ravines  close  to  beautifully  kept 
lawns  and  handsome  houses. 

"  Most  extraordinary  town  !  "  said  Harold. 
Montgomery  Street  below  the  railroad  (w^hich 
runs  through  the  busiest  part  of  the  town,  at 
the  base  of  the  hills  —  another  astonishing  cir- 
cumstance to  Harold)  is  not  a  pretty  street ; 
and  St.  Patrick's  Church,  against  whose  fence 
he  was  leaning,  is  as  severely  ugly  as  the  stern- 
est Puritan  could  desire,  although  the  cross 
which  surmounts  its  unadorned  stone  walls  and 
wooden  roof  is  the  symbol  of  the  most  ancient 
Christian  faith.  On  one  side  of  the  church  is 
the  parochial  school,  a  row  of  brick  buildings 
with  battered  wooden  doors  and  worn  wooden 
steps.  Nearer  the  street  there  is  the  priest's 
house,  a  small  two-story  brick  edifice,  and  in 
front  of  the  house  is  a  garden.  The  day  on 
which  Harold  first  saw  it  was  in  April,  and  it 
was  ablaze  with  tulips. 

"  Pretty  fine  display,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  a  mau, 
coming  up  to  Harold.  He  wore  a  working- 
man's  dress  with  a  carpenter's  rule  sticking  out 


o 


FATHER  QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.     147 

of  liis  coat  pocket,  and  he  rested  two  patched 
elbows  on  the  fence  rail  as  he  spoke. 

"  Yes,  it  is,  my  man,"  said  Harold  ;  *'  whose 
garden  is  it  ?  " 

"  Mister  Quinnailon's,  the  priest  here ;  that 's 
him  now  !  " 

Harold  looked  rather  curiously  at  the  priest, 
a  stout  old  man  in  a  threadbare  black  cassock, 
whose  strongly  marked,  dark  face  showed  his 
foreign  birth  ;  it  would  have  been  a  plain  face 
but  for  the  bright  eyes  and  benevolent  smile. 
"  How  sly  he  looks  !  "  thought  Harold,  whose 
English  education  had  intensified  the  average 
good  Protestant's  distrust  of  the  Church  of 
Rome.  » 

"  Good  morning,"  said  Father  Quinnailon ; 
"  how  is  your  vife  zis  morning  ?  " 

"  She  's  'bout  the  same,"  said  the  man. 

The  priest  was  picking  tulips  ;  he  handed 
them  over  the  fence  to  the  man. 

"  Shall  you  give  zem  to  her,  please,"  he  said, 
"  and  tell  her  zat  she  has  my  prayers." 

"Much  obliged.  Mister  Quinnailon,"  said 
the  man,  taking  the  flowers.  It  seemed  to 
Harold  that  he  would  have  said  more  had  he 
found  any  words  to  his  mind,  but  he  merely 
gave  a  short  nod  and  walked  down  the  street. 

The  priest,  turning  to  Harold,  asked  him  if 
he  cared  to  see  the  garden.  "  I  have  seen  you 
standing  here  for  a  long  time,"  he  said. 


148  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Harold  blushed  and  said  that  he  was  inter- 
ested in  tulips. 

"  And  you,  zen,  know  someting  of  ze  tulip 
culture,  perhaps?"  said  Father  Quinnailon, 
with  sparkling  eyes.  "  I  do  not  often  have  such 
a  pleasure  to  meet  one  zat  cares  for  zat.  Vill 
you  valk  in,  my  dear  sir  ?  " 

Harold,  half  amused  at  his  own  complaisance, 
followed  the  priest  about  the  garden  and  talked 
for  ten  minutes  of  tulips  and  Dutch  culture. 
Then  he  spoke  of  the  man  who  had  just  left 
them,  and  asked  the  priest  if  he  was  a  good 
workman. 

Father  Quinnailon  shook  his  head.  "  Zat  I 
do  not  know.  You  see,  my  dear  sir,  I .  have 
know  him  but  a  small  time.  It  vas  zis  vay.  I 
go  to  veesit  one  of  my  people  in  a  poor  house 
on  Tyler  Street  "  — 

"One  of  my  father's  houses,  probably,"  in- 
terrupted Durham.  "  I  am  come  to  repair 
them." 

"  Zat  is  good  news,"  said  Father  Quinnai- 
lon, bowing.  "  Eh  veil,  it  vas  zere  I  see  ]\Irs. 
Higgins.  Mrs.  Barnes  had  ze  room  across  her, 
and  ven  I  vas  to  leave  I  see  a  leetle  girl  brush- 
ing vith  a  broom  —  so  leetle  a  maiden  vith  so 
great  a  broom  !  —  and  I  say,  '  My  child,  vat 
make  you  vith  ze  broom  ?  '  Vile  I  talk,  I  hear 
her  mother  call,  and  I  come  in  to  find  her  sick, 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    149 

in  great  distress,  her  husband  gone  to  look  for 
vork,  no  one  to  help  her  but  ze  leetle  maid. 
So  I  sveep  ze  room  for  her,  and  we  get  ac- 
quainted a  leetle,  and  I  have  come  two  other 
times  and  send  her  a  flower  or  a  leetle  soup  or 
such  ting ;  but  zat  is  all  I  know.  She  did  tell 
me  —  yes  —  zat  her  husband  have  money  saved 
up  ven  he  come  here,  but  he  breaked  his  leg ; 
zat  vas  a  great  expense,  and  she  also  has  been 
long  sick.  But  I  tink  dem  to  be  good,  honest 
people  too  proud  to  beg." 

"  Then  you  can't  recommend  the  man  ?  " 

"  No,  not  as  to  vork,  for  zat  I  do  not  know. 
But  I  hope  you  vill  see  Mr.  Lawrence.  He  is 
a  builder  and  has  employed  him.  Stay,  it  is 
but  a  step  ;  if  you  vill  but  vait  here  I  vill  ask 
Mr.  Lawrence  myself." 

"  No,"  said  Harold,  "  I  will  go ;  pray  don't 
take  so  much  trouble.  They  are  poor,  then, 
these  Higginses  ?  " 

"  Very  poor,  I  fear,  sir,  but  zey  do  not  tell 
me  ;  I  am  not  of  zeir  profession  ;  zey  are  Prot- 
estants as  yourself,  sir,"  said  the  priest,  with 
a  little  wistful  glance  up  at  Harold's  face. 
("  He  wants  to  convert  me,"  thought  Harold.) 
**  Zey  speak  but  leetle  to  me  of  zeir  affairs,  and 
I  vish  not  to  intrude." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Harold.  "  I  thank 
you  for  your  courtesy  —  ah  —  Father ;  and  I 
will  wish  you  good  afternoon." 


150  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

The  old  priest  insisted  on  picking  a  most 
gorgeous  tulip  for  him,  saying,  ''It  is  so  great 
a  pleasure  to  give  to  one  who  knows  of  flowers." 

"  Decidedly,    he     means    to    convert    me," 
thought  Harold,  walking  up  the  hill.     His  sin- 
gle acquaintance  in  Xerxes  had  invited  him  to 
a  "  tea-party,"  a  festivity  of  ambiguous  nature, 
but  he  was  told  enjoyable,  and  to  it  he  was  now 
hastening.     Xerxes  is  on  the  Mississippi ;  and 
as  Harold  stood  on  the  Gilberts'  vine-covered 
porch,  he  could  see  the  river  shining  through 
the  tender  green  leaves.     He  thought  that  he 
would  write  Lily  of  the  pretty  home  which  the 
Gilberts  had,  and  how  beautiful  was  the  river ; 
and  then,  with  a  sharp  pang,  he  remembered 
that  none  of  his  friends  or  thoughts  mattered 
to  Lily  any  more.     In  most  incongruous  spirits 
he  was  ushered  by  his  host  through  two  hand- 
somely and  airily  furnished  rooms,  filled  with 
ladies  in  black  silk  and  point  lace.    Apparently 
the    gentlemen  were  all    in    the  hall.     Harold 
was  introduced  to  Mrs.  Gilbert,  a  pretty  little 
woman  with  very  bright  brown  eyes  and  very 
white  hands,  and  so  sweet  a  voice  that  Harold 
thought  the  western  accent  delicious.     She  in- 
troduced him  to  some  fifty  other  women,  young 
and  old,  who  all  asked  him  how  he  liked  Xerxes. 
He  said,  with  diffidence,  that  it  seemed  to  him 
"  rather  muddy." 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    151 

They,  without  exception,  opened  their  eyes 
very  wide  and  said,  — 

"  Do  you  think  it  muddy  noio  ?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  for  a  place  to  be  muddier  ?  " 
cried  Harold  desperately,  at  last. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  made  a  little  grimace.  "  You 
are  evidently  fresh  from  some  effete  monarchy 
where  they  pave  the  very  alleys.  Mr.  Durham, 
this  is  n't  mud,  this  is  fair  walking  ;  when  we 
are  muddy  the  cross  streets  are  impassable; 
people  don't  even  dare  to  die  because  they  know 
they  can't  have  a  funeral !  " 

"  But  the  farmers,"  said  Harold ;  "  how  do 
they  come  to  town  ?  " 

"  Oh,  they  don't  come." 

"  But  is  n't  it  very  awkward,  you  know?  " 

"  Very,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert  placidly.  "  Will 
you  sit  here,  Mr.  Durham  ?  " 

Harold  perceived  that  a  number  of  small 
tables  had  appeared  in  the  rooms,  and  that  peo- 
ple were  seating  themselves  around  them.  He 
found  himself  provided  mysteriously  with  a  nap- 
kin and  a  tiny  bouquet,  and  seated  near  a  very 
pretty  girl  who  was  equally  amiable,  but  whom, 
I  am  sorry  to  say,  he  was  never  able  afterward 
to  describe.  Indeed,  all  through  the  "  tea,"  — 
which  was  an  elaborate  supper,  by  the  way,  — 
he  talked  mechanically.  Once  only  he  was 
roused  to  any  interest  in  the  conversation.  A 
lady  near  him  was  speaking ;  — 


152  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN 

"  I  said  to  her  right  off,  I  could  n't  help  it, 
'  Mrs.  Hunter,'  I  said,  '  you  ain't  going  to  send 
Mary  to  the  Sisters  ?  '  '  Well,  yes,'  she  said, 
she  '  guessed  so  ;  her  father  did  n't  feel  he  could 
afford  to  send  Mary  East  this  year,  and  Mary 
had  shown  such  a  decided  taste  for  painting 
they  thought  just  for  this  year  they  would  let 
her  try  the  Sisters.'  " 

"  A  year  !  "  repeated  one  of  the  listeners  in 
a  hollow  voice,  "  a  year !  Six  months  is  enough 
for  them !  She  '11  come  back  a  Romanist,  Mrs. 
Dow." 

"  Of  course  she  will.  I  would  n't  send  a 
child  of  mine  to  a  Romanist  school  if  they  had 
to  grow  up  ignorant." 

'*  What  I  object  to  in  the  Papists,"  said  a 
gentleman  opposite,  "  is  their  proselyting  spirit. 
They  are  quite  welcome  to  their  superstitions 
for  themselves,  but  when  they  come  to  this 
country  for  refuge  and  we  receive  them,  the 
least  they  can  do  is  to  keep  from  forcing  their 
religion  on  us.  The  Romanists  are  getting  to 
be  a  political  power  in  this  country,  and  unless 
we  stop  their  influence  now,  while  we  have  the 
power,  we  shall  soon  find  that  the  church  of 
Rome  hasn't  lost  its  old  persecuting  spirit." 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  a  stout  lady  near  Harold, 
with  a  comfortable,  tolerant  smile  dimpling  her 
handsome  face,  "  there  are  good  people  every- 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    153 

wbere ;  I  have  seen  as  good  Catholics  as  Prot- 
estants ;  the  best  cook  I  ever  had  was  a  Cath- 
olic. It 's  the  priests  I  can't  bear ;  the  poor, 
deluded  people  I  pity." 

It  was  generally  agreed  that  the  priests  were 
deceitful  above  all  things,  and  one  lady  who 
had  lately  heard  Edith  O'Gorman  darkly  hinted 
that  they  were  also  desperately  wicked.  Mrs. 
Gilbert  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation 
in  silence  ;  at  this  last  remark  she  spoke. 

"  You  really  didn't  expect  me  to  hear  that 
and  say  nothing,  did  you  ?  "  she  said  laughing. 
"I  don't  know  what  the  priests  are  in  other 
countries  ;  I  've  never  lived  there  ;  but  here  in 
America  I  know  they  are  in  the  main,  to  say 
the  least,  hard-working,  devoted,  honest  men  of 
irreproachable  lives.  I  should  think  any  one 
in  Xerxes  could  see  that.  Look  at  Father 
O'Rourke,  who  does  good  every  day  he  lives, 
who  has  got  those  wild  Irish  boys  of  his  church 
into  a  literary  society,  and  is  making  decent 
men  of  them  ;  and  Father  Qainnailon,  who  is  a 
saint  if  ever  "  — 

The  stout  lady  interrupted  her  to  say  that 
she  always  excepted  Father  Quinnailon.  "  And 
the  Sisters  of  Mercy,"  she  added. 

"  Who  is  Father  Quinnailon  ?  "  asked  Harold. 
Every  one  looked  at  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

"  Father  Quinnailon,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert,  "  is 


154  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

an  old  settler  who  came  here  when  Xerxes  was 
a  village  and  everybody  was  dying  of  cholera. 
My  father  and  mother  had  just  come  here  then, 
and  my  mother  had  the  cholera.  They  could 
n't  get  a  house  anywhere,  and  were  thankful 
enough  to  get  into  a  warehouse  where  there 
was  a  crowd  of  German  emigrants  in  the  same 
case,  and  half  of  them  down  with  the  cholera. 
Our  furniture  had  not  come  (things  came  on 
boats  then,  and  I  believe  our  boat  was  fast  on  a 
sand  bar)  ;  my  poor  mother  had  not  a  bed  to 
lie  on,  only  some  husks  and  a  piece  of  carpet, 
until  Father  Quinnailon  brought  his  own  mat- 
tress to  her.  Poor  man,  he  slept  on  the  hard 
floor  because  of  it.  And  he  used  to  bring  her 
and  the  poor  Germans  who  were  there,  too, 
soup  and  all  kinds  of  things  which  he  would 
make  at  home." 

''  They  were  Catholics  ?  "  said  Harold. 

"  Catholics  ?  They  were  all  heretics,  every 
soul  of  them.  Father  Quinnailon  never  inquired 
about  a  sufferer's  religion  before  he  helped  him. 
And  as  for  proselyting  —  look  at  us,  who  have 
known  the  dear  old  man  all  our  lives  and  are 
as  firm  Presbyterians  as  you  can  find  I  " 

"  Yes,  Father  Quinnailon  is  a  good  man," 
said  the  stout  lady.  "I  remember,  thirty  years 
ago,  when  I  first  came  here  and  our  house  took 
fire,  how  he  was  up  on  the  roof,  the  first  man, 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    155 

witli  his  bucket ;  he  always  used  to  go  to  every 
fire  with  that  bucket  before  we  had  the  fire 
companies." 

"And  he  was  a  loyal  man  during  the  war," 
said  the  gentleman  who  had  spoken  first;  "give 
every  one  his  due,  I  say.  Father  Quinnailon 
did  a  great  deal  to  encourage  enlistments,  and 
I  must  say  I  liked  those  queer  little  speeches 
he  used  to  make  about  '  supporting  ze  generous 
country  zat  have  receive  us,'  when  we  had  flag 
raisings." 

"Well,"  said  another  gentleman,  "  he 's  likely 
to  receive  the  reward  of  all  his  virtues  ;  I  hear 
they  're  going  to  make  him  bishop  of  the  new 
diocese  in  this  state." 

"  Yes,  and  the  poor  man  is  so  distressed 
about  it,  Mr.  Graham,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert.  "He 
told  me  of  it  with  tears  in  his  eyes ;  he  said 
that  he  had  written  and  begged  them  not  to 
think  of  it ;  '  for,'  he  said,  '  I  am  not  a  learned 
man,  I  cannot  be  a  bishop,  I  am  but  fit  to  min- 
ister to  the  poor  people.'  " 

"  I  have  heard  of  that  kind  of  thing  in  apos- 
tolic times,"  said  Mr.  Graham,  "  but  I  have 
never  seen  any  clergyman  who  would  decline 
promotion,  myself.  It  is  n't  the  salary,  you 
understand,  it 's  the  larger  opportunities  of 
usefulness.  You  will  find  Father  Quinnailon 
will  take  the  same  view  of  it." 


166  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  so  either,"  said  the 
stout  lady.  ''  Father  Quinnailon  is  a  kind  of 
apostolic  man,  if  he  does  pray  to  idols  and  wor- 
ship the  Virgin  Mary." 

"  But  he  does  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Gilbert.  "  I 
never  saw  a  Catholic  who  did." 

There  were  several  exclamations. 

"  Perhaps  not  the  better  classes  "  —  began 
Mr.  Towne. 

Mrs.  Dow  interrupted  him.  "  Don't  you 
think  Romanists  pray  to  the  Virgin,  Mrs.  Gil- 
bert ?  I  know  I  've  read  in  '  Life  and  Light ' 
the  letters  from  our  missionaries  among  the 
Romanists,  in  Spain  and  Mexico  and  Austria, 
and  they  talk  about  the  superstitious  obser- 
vances there." 

"  I  never  knew  any  Mexicans  or  Spaniards," 
said  Mrs.  Gilbert.  "  I  have  known  Austrians, 
but  they  never  thought  of*  such  a  thing.  All 
the  Catholics  I  know  have  told  me  that  they 
only  pray  the  Virgin  to  intercede  for  them  with 
God.  They  would  feel  it  as  blasphemous  to 
pray  to  her  directly  as  you  or  I  would." 

"  But  I  have  read  in  '  Life  and  Light,' "  said 
the  unshaken  Mrs.  Dow,  "  that  some  Mexicans 
who  were  converted  and  became  Christians  "— r 

"  What  were  they  before  ?  "  asked  Harold. 
Romanists,"  answered  Mrs.  Dow  severely. 


(( 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    157 

"  ITie^/  said  that  they  used  to  kneel  down   be- 
fore the  Virgin's  shrine  and  prai/  !  " 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  make  much  difference 
whether  they  call  it  interceding  or  not,"  said 
Mr.  Towne;  "they  pray  to  her;  that's  the 
main  point." 

Mrs.  Gilbert  gave  Harold  a  helpless  glance, 
and  changed  the  subject.  Shortly  after  Harold 
made  his  excuses  and  went  away. 

During  the  two  months  following  he  was 
much  in  Xerxes.  He  often  met  Father  Quin- 
nailon,  for  most  of  his  tenants  were  the  old 
priest's  parishioners.  From  a  few  words  of 
greeting  they  soon  came  to  long  conversations  ; 
not  upon  religion,  but  upon  the  people  in  whom 
they  were  both  interested  and  upon  the  many 
difficulties  in  the  way  of  helping  the  poor. 
Sometimes  Harold  would  talk  to  Higgins,  whom 
he  had  employed,  about  the  priest.  Higgins 
always  called  him  "  Mister  Quinnailon,"  which 
title  it  appeared  was  Mr.  Higgins'  oblique  pro- 
test against  the  errors  of  Rome,  he  being  one 
of  the  best  of  Protestants  though  an  indifferent 
Christian. 

"  Fact  is,"  he  said  confidentially  to  Harold, 
"  since  Bessie  's  been  sick,  I  've  kinder  got  out 
of  the  way  of  going  to  church  ;  now  she  's  bet- 
ter, I  guess  I'll  begin  again.  But  for  all  that, 
I  ain't  forgot  the  stories  my  mother  used  to  tell 


158  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

me  'bout  John  Rogers  and  all  them.  We  had 
a  whole  book  about  them,  full  of  pictures  of 
people  being  burned  and  hung  and  prodded 
with  spears  and  sich  things  ;  we  used  to  be  let 
to  read  in  it  Sunday  afternoons.  No,  sir,  no 
Catholic  in  mine !  But  Mister  Quinnailon  's 
an  honest  man,  if  he  is  a  priest,  and  he  's  done 
a  sight  of  kind  things  to  us.  I  've  seen  him 
off  with  his  coat  and  wash  the  dishes  himself. 
And,  between  you  and  me,  I  guess  Bessie  tells 
him  the  most  of  her  troubles.  '  Don't  you  be 
letting  him  make  you  a  Catholic,  Bessie,'  says 
I.  '  He 's  making  me  a  better  Protestant, 
Obed,'  says  she ;  '  it  ain't  in  me  to  ever  be  a 
Catholic,  and  he  knows  it,  but  his  talks  and 
his  prayers  make  me  feel  better,'  says  she. 
He  's  a  pretty  good  man,  and  that 's  what  I  '11 
stick  to." 

Harold  also  talked  of  Father  Quinnailon  to 
Mrs.  Gilbert,  although  he  considered  her  testi- 
mony biased  beyond  expression.  Mrs.  Gilbert 
drew  her  own  conclusions  from  these  conver- 
sations, and  from  the  despondency  which  Har- 
old's most  strenuous  efforts  failed  to  conceal. 

"  He  is  having  some  trouble  with  his  girl," 
said  Mrs.  Gilbert.  "  I  do  believe,  from  all  his 
questions  about  Father  Quinnailon  and  Roman 
Catholics,  that  she  is  one,  and  that  's  the  trou- 
ble.    Probably  she  's  a  new  convert.     If  she  is. 


FATHER  QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    159 

she  is  odious.  I  never  knew  a  new  convert 
who  was  n't !  I  confess  I  'm  of  Charles  Lamb's 
opinion,  that  one  should  n't  set  one's  self  up 
to  be  wiser  than  his  ancestors,  but  should  stick 
to  the  religion  he  's  born  in,  whatever  it  is." 

Mr.  Gilbert  made  no  reply ;  in  fact,  he  was 
taking  his  Sunday  afternoon  nap,  and  had  not 
heard  a  word  of  his  wife's  discourse. 

She  was  confirmed  in  her  suppositions  by 
Harold's  next  conversation.  He  happened  to 
be  standing  at  the  window  as  a  long  procession 
of  young  girls,  in  whose  gowns  dark  red  pre- 
dominated, brightened  the  dingy  street,  four 
familiar  black-robed  figures  leading  the  proces- 
sion, four  more  guarding  the  rear.  Harold, 
idly  watching  them,  saw  a  merry  young  face 
turned  towards  him  with  a  frank  smile,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  blush. 

"  Why,  there 's  Mamie  Hunter !  "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Gilbert.  "  How  shocked  Mrs.  Dow  would 
be  to  see  her !  You  remember  her  dread  of  the 
Sisters'  influence  ?  " 

"Don't  you  think  they  do  try  to  proselyte?" 
Harold  said. 

"  Very  likely.  They  are  human,  and  they 
believe  their  faith  is  the  only  sure  foundation 
for  goodness  and  happiness.  I  know  Protestant 
girls'  schools  do  their  best  to  give  their  religious 
character  to  their  scholars.     The  one  I  went 


160  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

to  —  and  there  is  a  better  nowhere  !  —  made  a 
tremendous  assault  on  a  girl's  sensibilities." 

"  Nevertheless  you  must  admit  that  the  whole 
tone  of  Protestants  is  more  tolerant  than  that 
of  Catholics." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so.  I  have  been  told  so 
from  my  youth  up ;  but  individually,  I  confess 
the  Catholics  I  have  known  have  shown  a 
broader  charity  towards  Protestants  than  the 
Protestants  have  shown  to  the  Catholics.  One 
of  my  dearest  friends  is  a  devoted  Catholic  ; 
she  knows  a  great  deal  more  than  I,  with  my 
two  babies,  can  ever  hope  to  achieve ;  and  she 
is  the  best,  the  sweetest,  the  most  truthful,  and 
the  truest  girl  I  ever  knew.  I  have  known  her 
ten  years ;  I  love  her,  and  she  loves  me ;  but 
in  all  that  time  I  never  heard  a  word  from  her 
in  praise  of  her  church  or  in  disparagement  of 
mine.  And  though  my  other  Catholic  acquaint- 
ances are  n't  such  absolute  angels  as  she,  I  can 
say  the  same  thing  of  them.  There  are  plenty 
of  bigoted  Catholics,  of  course,  but  I  think  they 
are  mostly  among  the  uneducated  people ;  and 
I  don't  think  they  make  the  most  tolerant  Prot- 
estants." 

Harold  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  They  talk 
like  angels  of  light,  now,  but  wait  until  they  are 
stronger  politically  "  — 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  politics,"  inter- 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    161 

rupted  Mrs.  Gilbert,  "  but  I  do  know  tliat  if 
the  Protestant  creed  is  driven  out  of  America, 
it  will  be  because  it  is  not  fit  to  stay,  and  de- 
serves to  go !  But  I  confess  I  see  no  signs  of 
such  things,  and  I  d(3  see  that  there  is  —  what 
do  you  call  it?  —  a  reflex  influence.  If  the 
Catholic  Church  is  affecting  America,  so  is 
America  affecting  the  Catholic  Church.  And  I 
actually,  do  you  know,  am  such  a  lukewarm 
Protestant  that  I  can  conceive  of  them  both 
doing  each  other  good." 

Harold  smiled  and  said  that  she  was  too 
clever  for  him.  He  did  not  pursue  the  subject ; 
he  was  in  no  humor  for  argument ;  indeed,  in 
those  days  he  was  abjectly  miserable. 

"  The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose  ; 

The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare ; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair ; 

The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth ; 

But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go. 
That  there  hath  passed  away  a  glory  from  the  earth.'* 

Harold  still  has  the  old  memorandum  book 
in  which  he  copied  this  stanza  one  day  when  he 
was  particularly  despondent ;  and  it  is  the  best 
record  of  his  feelings.  Every  passing  interest 
seemed  to  fling  a  chain  of  associations  to  grap- 
ple Lily's  image  to  his   thoughts.     When  he 


162  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

picked  the  first  auemone,  in  a  ravine,  he  wanted 
to  tell  her  how  much  earlier  the  flowers  came 
to  him  than  to  her ;  when  Mrs.  Barnes's  little 
Annie  sickened  with  a  baleful  something,  sup- 
posed to  be  small-pox  but  proving  no  worse 
than  measles,  he  longed  to  pour  out  his  relief  to 
her  ;  when  he  settled  the  drain  plans  to  his 
satisfaction,  he  longed  as  much  to  impart  his 
pleasure ;  when  he  went  to  church,  even,  he 
could  not  sit  in  his  pew  without  seeing  again 
the  light  streaming  through  the  rich  hues  of 
the  stained  window  on  the  oval  of  her  cheek 
and  her  beautiful  hair,  without  feeling  again 
the  stir  of  a  tender  dream  in  his  heart.  A  hun- 
dred pretty  conceits  assailed  his  fancy,  and  he 
had  never  in  the  whole  time  of  their  friendship 
compared  her  to  so  many  fair  and  adorable  ob- 
jects as  he  did  during  those  two  unhappy 
months.  He  went  back  and  forth  from  Xerxes 
to  Chicago,  but  he  saw  nothing  of  the  Maines, 
and  he  found  his  existence  duller  every  day. 

Mrs.  Gilbert  became  quite  settled  in  her 
theory  of  the  something  on  his  mind. 

"  My  dear  Jim,"  she  remarked  to  Mr.  Gil- 
bert, —  who  "  did  n't  see  anything  out  of  the 
way  in  Durham,"  —  "my  dear  Jim,"  she  said, 
with  that  air  of  compassionate  moderation 
which  in  a  woman  denotes  that  she  has  given 
up  trying  to  sound  the  depths  of  masculine  ob- 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    163 

tuseness  and  feels  no  longer  irritation  but  pity, 
"  did  you  ever  know  a  man  who  was  n't  deaf 
and  did  n't  have  something  on  his  mind  hear  so 
little  of  what  was  said  as  Mr.  Durham  does  ? 
He  is  always  saying,  <- 1  beg  pardon  ! '  in  his 
horrid  English  way."  She  declared  that  he 
was  growing  thin ;  and  a  second  time  confided 
her  explanatory  romance  to  her  husband.  He 
burst  into  a  great,  rude,  unbelieving  laugh, 
and  shouted  out  that  he  would  tell  Harold  ;  a 
threat  which,  Mrs.  Gilbert  afterward  said,  fairly 
sent  cold  chills  through  her. 

But  Harold  was  not  told,  and  unconsciously 
went  his  dismal  way,  working  much  harder 
than  was  good  for  him  and  sleeping  much  less. 
Oddly  enough,  it  may  seem,  he  found  his  great- 
est comfort  in  Father  Quinnailon's  friendship. 
The  old  man's  simple  and  loving  heart  from 
the  first  had  warmed  to  him,  and  Harold, 
though  thinking  himself  mighty  cynical  at 
present,  had  a  nature  easily  touched  by  genu- 
ine kindness.  He  took  a  languid  pleasure  in 
helping  the  priest's  little  charities,  or  sending 
him  rare  plants  for  his  garden,  or  sometimes 
driving  him  along  the  beautiful  river  shore,  to 
see  a  sick  child  or  an  aged  woman  who  lived 
too  far  from  the  church  to  come  often  to  the 
services.  They  spoke  French  together  on  these 
drives.     The  priest  was  only  the  son  of  a  peas- 


164  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

ant,  and  spoke  quite  frankly  of  his  humble 
origin.  His  father  and  mother  had  long  been 
dead;  he  had  no  nearer  relatives  living  than 
aunts  and  cousins,  whom  he  had  never  seen ; 
but  he  never  wearied  talking  of  his  native  vil- 
lage and  the  old  curS  who  had  been  his  first 
teacher. 

"  He  is  dead,  too,"  he  said ;  "  so  many  are 
dead !     It  is  lonely  to  be  an  old  man,  my  son." 

Harold  found  it  decidedly  difficult,  about  this 
time,  to  keep  his  distrust  of  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic clergy  as  active  as  behooved  a  stanch  Prot- 
estant. However,  he  thought  of  bloody  JVIary 
and  the  Spanish  Inquisition  and  the  Machia- 
velian  wiles  of  the  Jesuits,  and  he  held  his  lik- 
ing for  Father  Quinnailon  well  in  check  until 
one  day  nearly  two  months  after  his  arrival  in 
Xerxes.  It  was  a  May  day,  in  the  mornings 
there  had  been  a  rain  during  the  night,  and  the 
sidewalks,  the  piles  of  brick,  and  the  loose 
boards  scattered  over  the  grass  were  steam- 
ing in  the  sun.  Some  women  were  washing 
clothes ;  they  had  stretched  a  rope  from  one 
tree  to  another,  directly  above  the  hod-carri- 
er's path,  so  that  the  red  and  yellow  flannels 
flapped  against  the  hods.  A  few  bare-legged 
little  children  were  wading  through  the  wet 
jimson  weeds  which  bordered  the  sidewalk,  and 
their  laughter  mingled  with  the  shrill  clangor 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    165 

of  the  blue  jays  in  the  tree  tops.  Harold 
looked  and  listened  and  only  half  heard  Hig- 
gins  who  was  talking  to  him. 

*'  There 's  the  new  bishop,"  said  Higgins, 
suddenly. 

Harold  saw  Father  Quinnailon  approaching ; 
he  walked  more  slowly  than  was  usual  with 
him,  and  his  head  was  bent. 

"  Is  he  to  be  bishop  ?  "  asked  the  young  man. 

"  Yes,  they  done  it  at  last,  after  hanging  fire 
three  months,  made  the  new  diocese  and  he  's 
appointed ;  only  needs  the  Pope's  approval 
now." 

Harold  stroked  his  moustache  to  hide  a  sneer. 
"Larger  opportunities  for  usefulness,  I  fancy," 
he  muttered  to  himself.  Then  half  ashamed 
of  his  thought,  he  cordially  greeted  the  old 
priest,  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  a  week  as  he 
had  been  in  Chicago.  Father  Quinnailon  was 
looking  sadly  ill. 

"  You  have  heard  ? "  he  said  anxiously,  in 
French. 

"I  have  heard  only  good  news,"  Harold  re- 
plied ;  "  that  you  are  to  be  bishop." 

"  It  is  that,  it  is  that,"  cried  the  priest,  sigh- 
ing heavily;  "for  see,  my  son,  I  have  fasted, 
I  have  prayed,  but  it  is  still  the  same  to  me. 
I  would  give  up  my  people,  with  whom  I  have 
been  so  long,  whom  I  love  so  dearly,  if  I  could 


166  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

be  a  bishop;  but  I  am  a  simple  old  man,  not 
fit  for  such  a  high  office,  I  should  make  mis- 
takes ;  I  should  make  the  people  to  laugh  at  our 
holy  religion.  I  have  written.  It  is  pain  to 
me  to  write,  who  write  so  poorly;  but  I  have 
written  many  —  three  —  four  —  letters,  I  have 
besought  them.  But  they  will  not  heed  me. 
There  remains  one  thing  only.  I  have  sgld 
the  little  that  I  have,  and  my  people  out  of 
their  poverty  will  give  me  some  little  more, 
and  I  will  go  to  the  Holy  Father.  It  is  not 
much  which  I  need ;  I  can  live  on  little  things 
—  soup,  good  black  bread  that  I  have  eaten  as 
a  lad ;  and  I  do  not  care  to  ride  in  the  grand 
coaches  like  nobles ;  I  shall  have  enough. 
There  I  shall  go ;  I  will  fall  at  the  feet  of  the 
Holy  Father,  and  beseech  him  not  to  make  a 
bishop  out  of  a  poor,  simple  old  man  who  can- 
not bear  so  great  a  burden ;  but  to  let  me  come 
back  and  die  among  my  dear  people !  " 

The  priest  had  clasped  his  hands,  and  the 
tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks ;  the  women 
who  had  drawn  near  were  rubbing  their  eyes, 
although  they  could  not  understand  a  word. 
Harold,  uttering  an  inarticulate  exclamation, 
strode  off  through  the  grass.  Before  the  priest 
could  speak  he  strode  back  again,  and  began  to 
shake  the  old  man's  hand. 

"Father  Quinnailon,"  he  cried,  "I  respect 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    167 

you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart ;  you  are  a 
good  man !  Yes,  if  I  am  a  heretic  you  mustn't 
refuse  it ! "  He  thrust  a  bill  into  the  priest's 
hand ;  and  in  spite  of  bloody  Mary  and  the 
Inquisition  and  the  Jesuits,  —  not  to  mention 
two  German  farmers  and  the  six  women  hang- 
ing out  clothes, ^ — he  took  off  his  hat  and  bowed 
his  head  to  the  priest's  blessing. 

"  May  God  bless  you,  my  son  ;  I  will  not 
refuse  the  gift  of  a  generous  heart.  And  may 
God  bring  us  to  meet  again  in  this  world,  if  it 
be  His  will ;  but  if  not,  may  He  bring  you  and 
me  to  worship  Him  in  Heaven  with  all  his 
Saints,  by  the  way  He  sees  best." 

Then  Harold  actually  ran  away,  followed  by 
the  women's  voluble  blessings. 

He  was  one  of  the  multitude  who  gathered 
at  the  depot  the  next  morning  to  see  Father 
Quinnailon  start  on  his  long  journey.  Mrs. 
Gilbert  described  the  scene  to  James. 

"  Never  was  there  such  time  of  weeping  and 
wailing !  Father  Quinnailon  cried  and  the 
people  cried  and  the  babies  just  howled !  In 
the  midst  of  all  this  grief  I  managed  to  lose 
my  handkerchief,  and  you  've  no  idea,  Jim, 
how  awkward  it  is  to  have  nothing  but  your 
gloves  to  cry  on  !  I  thought  of  borrowing  Mr. 
Durham's,  —  he  was  there,  —  but  he  looked  so 
grand  and  glum  and  so  dreadfully  well  dressed 


168  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

that  I  felt  it  was  quite  too  much  to  ask,  so  I 
sniffed  and  winked  and  choked  and  got  on  as 
well  as  I  could  without  it.  I  saw  him  going 
into  St.  Patrick's,  when  I  came  home ;  what- 
ever do  you  suppose  he  was  doing  ?  " 

Harold  himself  could  hardly  have  answered 
her  question.  He  saw  the  church  doors  stand- 
ing open,  and  obeying  an  impulse  whose  depth 
he  did  not  gauge,  he  entered.  He  had  never 
been  in  the  church  before.  Evidently  it  was 
a  church  of  the  poor ;  the  worn  pine  pews,  the 
colored  lithographs  representing  the  Saviour's 
passion,  which  were  the  only  ornaments  of 
unpainted  walls,  the  wooden  crucifix  above 
the  high  altar,  the  white  wooden  steps  to  the 
altar  crowded  with  votive  offerings  of  the 
cheapest  artificial  flowers,  the  lace  paper  fring- 
ing the  altar  steps ;  all  told  of  stinted  purses. 
Yet  in  their  careful  neatness  there  was  a  touch 
of  pathos  to  Harold ;  it  was  as  though  the 
sacred  symbolism  of  altar  and  cross  had  made 
the  mean  material  precious.  While  he  was 
musing  thus,  two  women  came  down  the  aisle 
and  knelt  in  a  pew  near  him.  One  of  them 
was  a  very  old  woman  with  a  grotesquely 
wrinkled  and  withered  face,  shaded  by  a  huge 
white  cap  like  the  caps  in  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds' 
portraits,  only  the  crown  had  somehow  shrunken 
to  a  scanty  bag.     The  other  woman  was  still 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    169 

young ;  she  carried  a  heavy  basket,  and  there 
was  a  bruise  on  her  cheek.  Both  were  very 
poorly  dressed,  and  both  prayed  devoutly. 
Harold  watched  them  for  a  few  moments,  and 
then  walked  softly  out  of  the  church.  He  was 
about  to  put  a  piece  of  silver  in  the  box  at  the 
door  when  he  perceived  another  man  there, 
hand  extended ;  and  the  man  turning,  to  his 
infinite  amazement  he  saw  the  features  of 
that  sturdy  enemy  of  the  Scarlet  Woman,  Mr. 
Obed  Higgins.  They  wore  a  singular  expres- 
sion of  shamefaced  emotion.  Higgins  made  a 
sign  with  his  forefinger  implying  a  desire  for 
further  communication,  and  tiptoed  out  to  the 
sidewalk. 

"  I  did  n't  suspect  you  of  generosity  in  that 
quarter,  Higgins,"  said  Harold. 

Higgins  rubbed  his  forehead.  "  Well  now, 
Mr.  Durham,  wa'n't  you  there,  yourself  ?  You 
can't  say  he  wa'n't  a  good  man ;  and  I  had  n't 
no  other  way  of  showing  I  appreciated  what  he 
done  for  Bessie ;  and  anyhow,  't  ain't  for  the 
church,  if  I  rightly  understand  it,  —  it 's  for 
the  poor." 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Higgins,"  said  Harold, 
and  walked  away. 

We  do  not  often  understand  what  it  is  that, 
in  the  slow  changing  of  our  judgments  and 
ideals,  completes  the  transmutation  and  turns 


170  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

chaos  into  form ;  but  often  we  can  remember 
the  moment  wlien  the  new  powers  demanded 
their  first  hearing.  Harold  always  remembered 
the  May  morning  on  which  he  owned  to  him- 
self that  he  had  been  gravely  unjust. 

"  In  short,  I  have  been  a  bigot,"  said  he ; 
"  because  I  thought  the  Catholic  faith  was  a 
remnant  of  the  Dark  Ages,  and  because  I  believe 
it  politically  dangerous,  I,  who  belong  to  the 
party  of  toleration,  could  n't  tolerate  their  com- 
ing here  and  trying  to  disseminate  their  belief 
just  as  I  try  to  disseminate  mine.  I  have 
judged  people  solely  on  the  evidence  against 
them,  without  listening  to  what  they  might 
have  to  say  for  tliemselves  ;  I  have  had  mean 
suspicions  of  a  kind  old  man ;  I  have  n't  done 
justice,  much  less  shown  mercy;  it's  a  disgust- 
ing fact,  I  'm  a  bigot." 

He  was  walking  up  the  hill.  The  air  was 
very  soft,  and  the  sky  was  unfathomably  clear, 
and  the  river,  in  the  sunlight,  took  on  blue  and 
silver  tints  which  he  had  never  noticed  before. 
He  saw  a  violet  growing  amid  the  long  grass 
close  to  a  fence  and  picked  it  ;  he  had  told 
Lily  often  that  she  was  a  violet  rather  than  a 
lily.  A  great  wave  of  remorseful  tenderness 
swept  over  Harold's  heart,  and  washed  it  clean 
from  any  taint  of  bitterness  or  selfish  pride. 
"  Oh,  my   love,"    he    whispered  to   the   little 


o 


FATHER   QUINNAILON'S   CONVERT.    171 

flower,  "  have  I  been  unjust  and  cruel  to  7/ouf 
By  Jove,  I  'm  not  only  a  bigot  but  a  snob  ;  I 
needed  Father  Quinnailon  to  take  the  worldli- 
ness  out  of  me.  What  right  had  I  to  ask  Lily 
to  give  up  her  principles  ?  It  was  just  the 
same  conceited  stuff  as  my  wanting  those  poor 
creatures  in  the  church  to  give  up  the  religion 
which  helps  them  to  bear  their  hard  lives !  " 

The  sequel  to  meditation  of  this  sort  is  easy 
to  imagine.  Harold  wrote  nine  letters,  which 
he  tore  up  into  such  small  pieces  as  to  give 
much  trouble  to  the  chambermaid  when  she 
read  them ;  and  then  he  took  the  evening  train 
for  Chicago. 

At  nine  o'clock  upon  the  following  morning 
he  met  Lily  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  house ; 
to  be  exact,  her  hand  was  on  the  door-knob. 
The  young  people  looked  at  each  other ;  and 
Harold,  after  a  night  spent  in  the  composition 
of  penitent  speeches,  found  nothing  better  to 
say  than,  — 

"Lily,  can  you  forgive  a  fool?" 

"  If  I  had  been  a  fool,  too,  and  —  and  I  — 
loved  him,  I  might,"  said  Lily. 

What  is  there  left  to  add  ?  I  have  no  doubt 
that  Harold  will  learn  to  admire  all  Dr.  Jeru- 
sha  Dale's  virtues,  but  I  doubt  much  if  his 
mother  ever  will  like  her.  Father  Quinnailon 
succeeded  in  his  mission,  and  his  memories  of 


172  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Rome  and  the  Pope's  kindness  will  make  the 
rest  of  his  days  bright.  Perhaps  I  should  add 
that  the  Gilberts  were  present  at  Harold's  wed- 
ding ;  Mrs.  Gilbert  was  very  pretty  and  very 
jubilant,  saying  to  her  husband,  "You  may  re- 
member, Jim  "  — 

"  I  remember  you  said  Durham  was  sweet  on 
a  Roman  Catholic,"  said  the  rude  James,  "  and 
you  hoped  Father  Quinnailon  would  convert 
him  to  toleration." 

"  Well,  he  did  convert  him  to  tolerating 
something  a  great  deal  worse  than  the  Catho- 
lics, who  do  dress  like  other  people,  however 
bad  their  hearts  may  be !  James,  do  you  know, 
I  think  conversion  's  like  archery ;  of  course 
you  mean  to  hit  the  gold,  but  you  are  glad  if 
you  get  your  arrow  anywhere  in  the  target !  " 


o 


A  COMMUNIST'S  WIFE. 

A    SKETCH    FROM    LIFE. 

The  Countess  von  Arno  was  Mr.  Seleigman's 

confidential   clerk.      Not   that   M smiled 

over  any  such  paradox ;  the  countess  called  her- 
self simply  Mrs.  von  Arno. 

M is  a  picturesque  town  on  the  Missis- 
sippi, devoted  in  general  to  the  manufacture  of 
agricultural  implements.  The  largest  plow- 
factory  is  Seleigman's :  he  does  business  all 
over  the  world.  A  clerk  who  wrote  French, 
German,  and  Italian  fluently  was  a  godsend. 
This  clerk,  moreover,  had  an  eminently  concise 
and  effective  style,  and  displayed  a  business 
capacity  which  the  old  German  admired  im- 
mensely. As  much  because  of  her  usefulness 
as  the  modest  sum  she  was  able  to  invest  in 
the  business,  he  offered  her  a  small  share  in  it 

four  years  after  she  first  came  to  M .     She 

had   come   to   M because    Mrs.    Greymer 

lived  there.  Therese  Greymer  had  known  the 
countess  from  her  school-days.  When  her  hus- 
band died  she  came  back  to  her  father's  house, 


174  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

but  spent  her  summers  in  Germany.  Then  old 
Mr.  Dare  died  suddenly,  leaving  Therese  with 
her  little  brother  to  care  for,  and  only  a  few 
thousand  dollars  in  the  world.  About  this 
time  the  countess  separated  from  her  husband. 
"  So  I  am  poor,"  said  she,  "  but  it  will  go  hard 
if  I  can't  take  care  of  you,  Therese."  Thus 
she  became  Mr.  Seleigman's  clerk.  M for- 
gave her  the  clerkship,  forgave  her  even  her 
undoubted  success  in  making  money,  on  account 
of  Mrs.  Greymer.  It  had  watched  Therese 
grow  from  a  slim  girl,  with  black  braids  hang- 
ing down  her  white  neck  as  she  sat  in  the 
"  minister's  pew  "  of  the  old  brick  church,  into 
a  beautiful  pale  woman  in  a  widow's  bonnet. 
Therese  went  now  every  Sunday  to  the  same 
church  where  her  father  used  to  preach.  The 
countess  accompanied  her  most  decorously. 
She  was  a  pagan  at  heart,  but  it  pleased  Ther- 
ese. In  church  she  spent  her  time  looking  at 
her  friend's  profile  and  calculating  the  week's 
sales. 

The  countess  had  a  day-dream  :  the  dreams 
which  most  women  have,  had  long  ago  been 
rudely  broken  for  her,  and  the  hopes  which  she 
cherished  now  had  little  romance  about  them. 
She  knew  her  own  powers  and  how  necessary 
she  was  to  Seleigman ;  some  day  she  saw  the 
firm   becoming   Seleigman    &   Von    Arno,  the 


o 


A   COMMUNISTS    WIFE,  175 

business  widening,  and  the  plows,  with  the 
yellow  eagle  on  them,  in  every  great  city  of 
Europe.  "  Then,"  said  the  countess  to  herself, 
standing  one  March  morning,  four  years  after 
she  had  first  come  to  M ,  by  the  little  din- 
ing-room window  —  "then  we  can  perhaps  per- 
suade the  workmen  to  buy  stock  in  the  concern, 
and  have  a  few  gleams  of  sense  about  profits 
and  wages." 

She  lifted  one  arm  above  her  head  and  rested 
her  cheek  against  it.  Otto  von  Arno  during 
his  brief  period  of  fondness  had  been  used  to 
call  his  wife  "  his  Scandinavian  goddess."  She 
was  of  the  goddess  type,  tall,  fair-faced,  and 
stately,  with  thick,  pale  gold  hair,  and  brown 
lashes  lifted  in  level  lines  from  steady,  deep- 
gray  eyes.  "  Pretty  "  seemed  too  small  a  word 
for  such  a  woman,  yet  "  beautiful "  conveys  a 
hint  of  tenderness;  and  Mrs.  von  Arno's  face  — 
it  might  be  because  of  those  steady  eyes  —  was 
rather  a  hard  face,  notwithstanding  the  soft 
pink  and  white  of  her  skin,  and  even  the  dim- 
ples that  dented  her  cheek  when  she  smiled. 

Now  she  was  not  smiling.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  the  damp  chill  of  early  spring ;  and 
as  the  countess  absently  surveyed  a  gravel- walk 
bordered  by  limp  brown  grasses  and  a  line  of 
trees  dripping  last  night's  frost  through  the 
fog,  she  saw  a  woman's  figure  emerge  from  the 


176  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

shadows  and  come  slowly  up  the  walk.  She 
was  poorly  dressed,  and  walked  to  the  kitchen- 
door,  where  the  countess  could  see  her  carefully 
wipe  her  feet  before  rapping. 

"  That  must  be  Bailey's  wife,"  she  thought : 
"  I  saw  her  waiting  for  him  yesterday  when  he 
came  round  to  the  shops  for  work.  —  William, 
my  friend,  you  are  a  nuisance." 

With  this  comment  she  went  to  the  kitchen. 
Lettice,  the  maid-of-all-work,  was  frying  cakes 
in  solitude.  "  Mrs.  Greymer  had  taken  Mrs. 
Bailey  into  the  library,"  she  told  the  countess 
with  significant  inflections. 

The  latter  went  to  the  library.  It  was  a 
tiny,  red-frescoed  room  fitted  up  in  black  wal- 
nut. There  were  plants  in  the  bay-window: 
Mrs.  Greymer  stood  among  them,  her  soft  gray 
wrapper  falling  in  straight  and  ample  folds 
about  her  slender  figure.  Her  face  was  turned 
toward  the  countess  ;  a  loosened  lock  of  black 
hair  brushed  the  blue  vein  on  her  cheek ;  she 
held  some  lilies-of-the-valley  in  her  hand,  and 
the  gold  of  her  wedding-ring  shone  against  the 
dark  green  leaves. 

"  She  looks  like  one  of  Fra  Angelico's  saints," 
thought  the  countess  :  "  the  crimson  lights  are 
good  too." 

She  stood  unnoticed  in  the  doorway,  leisurely 
admiring  the  picture.     Mrs.   Bailey  sat  in  the 


o 


A  COMMUNISTS    WIFE.  177 

writing-chair  on  her  right.  Once,  probably, 
she  had  been  a  pretty  woman,  and  she  still  had 
abundant  wavy  brown  hair  and  large  dark-blue 
eyes  with  curling  lashes ;  but  she  was  too  thin 
and  faded  and  narrow-chested  for  any  prettiness 
now.  Her  calico  gown  was  unstarched,  though 
scrupulously  clean:  she  wore  a  thin  blue-and- 
white  summer  shawl,  and  her  old  straw  bonnet 
was  trimmed  with  a  narrow  blue  ribbon  pieced 
in  two  places.  Her  voice  was  slightly  monoto- 
nous, but  low-keyed  :  as  she  spoke  her  hands 
clasped  and  unclasped  each  other.  The  veins 
stood  out  and  the  knuckles  were  enlarged,  but 
they  were  rather  white  than  otherwise. 

She  went  on  with  her  story  ;  "  The  children 
are  so  good,  Mrs.  Greymer ;  but  six  of  them, 
and  me  not  over  strong  —  it  makes  it  hard. 
We  hain't  had  anything  but  corn  meal  in  the 
house  all  this  week,  and  the  second-hand  woman 
says  our  things  ain't  worth  the  carting.  The 
children  have  got  so  shabby  they  hate  to  go  to 
school,  and  the  boys  laugh  at  Willie  'cause  his 
hat's  his  pa's  old  one  and  ain't  got  no  brim, 
though  I  bound  it  with  the  best  of  the  old  braid, 
for  I  thought  maybe  they  'd  think  it  was  a  cap. 
And  the  worst  was  this  morning,  when  there 
was  nothin' but  just  mush:  we  hadn't  even 
'lasses,  and  the  children  cried.  Oh,  I  did  n't 
go  to  tell  you  all  this :  you  know  I  ain't  a  beg- 


178  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN. 

gar.  I  've  tried  to  live  decent.  Oh  dear !  oh 
dear !  "  She  tried  to  wipe  away  the  tears 
which  were  running  down  her  thin  cheeks  with 
the  tips  of  her  fingers,  but  they  came  too  fast. 
Mechanically,  she  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket, 
only  to  take  it  out  empty. 

Mrs.  Greymer  slipped  her  own  dainty  hand- 
kerchief, whicli  the  countess  had  embroidered, 
into  the  other's  hand.  "  You  ought  to  ha^e 
come  to  me  before,  Martha,"  she  said  reproach- 
fully —  "  such  an  old  friend  as  I  am  !  " 

"  'T  ain't  easy  to  have  them  as  has  known 
you  when  you  were  like  folks  see  you  without 
even  a  handkerchief  to  cry  on,"  said  Mrs. 
Bailey.  "  If  I  'd  known  where  to  turn  for  a 
loaf  of  bread,  I  'd  not  ha'  come  now ;  but  I 
can't  see  my  children  starve.  And  I  ain't  come 
to  beg  now.  All  we  want  is  honest  work. 
William  has  been  everywhere  since  they  sent 
him  away  from  Dorsey's  just  because  the  men 
talked  about  striking,  though  they  didn't  strike. 
He  's  been  to  all  the  machine-shops,  but  they 
won't  take  him :  they  say  he  has  too  long  a 
tongue  for  them,  though  he's  as  sober  and 
steady  a  man  as  lives,  and  there  ain't  a  better 

workman  in  M ,  or  D either.    William 

is  willing  to  do  anything  :  he  tried  to  get  work 
on  the  streets,  but  the  street  commissioner  said 
he  'd  more  men  he  'd  employed  for  years  asking 


A   COMMUNIST'S   WIFE.  179 

work  than  he  knew  what  to  do  with.  And  I 
thought  —  I  thought,  Mrs.  Greymer,  if  you 
would  only  speak  to  Mrs.  von  Arno  "  — 

"  Good-morning,  Mrs.  Bailey,"  said  the  coun- 
tess, advancing.  She  had  a  musical  voice,  clear 
and  full,  with  a  vibrating  quality  like  the  notes 
of  a  violin  —  a  very  pleasant  voice  to  hear,  yet 
it  hardly  seemed  reassuring  to  the  visitor.  Un- 
consciously, she  sat  up  straighter  in  her  chair, 
her  nervous  fingers  plaiting  the  fringe  of  her 
shawl. 

"  I  heard  you  mention  my  name,"  the  coun- 
tess continued.  "Is  there  anything  you  wish  of 
me?" 

Therese  came  to  Mrs.  Bailey's  assistance : 
"  Her  husband  is  out  of  work.  Can't  you  do 
something  with  Mr.  Seleigman,  Helen?  Bailey 
is  a  good  workman." 

"  He  is  indeed,  ma'am,"  added  Bailev's  wife 
eagerly,  "  and  as  sober  and  faithful  to  his  work : 
he  never  slights  one  bit." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  the  countess  gravely; 
"  but,  Mrs.  Bailey,  if  we  were  to  take  your 
husband  on,  and  the  union  were  to  order  a 
strike,  even  though  he  were  perfectly  satisfied 
with  his  own  wages,  wouldn't  he  strike  him- 
self, and  do  all  he  could  to  make  the  others 
strike  ?  "     Mrs.  Bailey  was  silent. 

"  A  strike  might  cost  us  thousands  of  dollars. 


180  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Naturally,  we  don't  want  to  risk  one ;  so  we 
have  no  union-men.  If  Bailey  will  leave  the 
union  he  may  go  to  hammering  plowshares  for 
us  to-morrow,  and  earn,  with  his  skill,  twenty 
dollars  a  week." 

Mrs.  Bailey's  face  worked.  "  'T  ain't  no  use, 
ma'am,"  she  said  desperately ;  "  he  won't  go 
back  on  his  principles.  He  says  it 's  the  cause 
of  Labor,  and  he  '11  stick  to  it  till  he  dies.  You 
can't  blame  a  man  for  doing  what  he  thinks  is 
right." 

*'  Perhaps  not.  But  you  see  that  it  is  impos- 
sible for  us  to  employ  your  husband.  Isn't 
there  something  I  can  do  for  you  yourself, 
though  ?  Mrs.  Greymer  tells  me  you  sew  very 
neatly." 

"  Yes,  I  sew,"  said  Mrs.  Bailey  in  a  dull 
tone,  "  but  I  'd  be  obliged  to  you,  ma'am,  if 
you  'd  give  me  the  work  soon :  I  've  a  machine 
now,  and  I'll  likely  not  have  it  next  week. 
There 's  ten  dollars  due  on  it,  and  the  agent 
says  he  '11  have  to  take  it  back.  I  've  paid  fifty 
dollars  on  it,  but  this  month  and  last  times  was 
so  hard  I  couldn't  pay." 

The  countess  put  a  ten-dollar  bill  in  her 
hand.  "Let  me  lend  you  this,  then,"  she  said, 
unheeding  the  half  shrinking  of  Mrs.  Bailey's 
face  and  attitude ;  and  then  she  avoided  all 
thanks  by  answering  Lettice's  summons  at  the 
door. 


A   COMMUNIST'S    WIFE.  181 

"  Poor  little  woman  !  "  she  said  to  Mrs.  Grey- 
mer  at  breakfast ;  "  she  did  n't  half  like  to 
take  it.  She  looked  nearly  starved,  too,  though 
she  ate  so  little  breakfast.  How  did  you  man- 
age to  persuade  her  to  take  that  huge  bundle?" 

"She  is  a  very  brave  little  woman,  Helen. 
I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Greymer. 

"  Until  a  quarter  of  eight  my  time  is  yours, 
and  my  sympathy,  as  usual,  is  boundless." 

Mrs.  Greymer  smiled  slightly.  "  I  have 
known  her  for  a  great  many  years,"  she  said, 
disregarding  the  countess's  last  speech ;  "  she 
went  to  school  with  me,  in  fact.  She  was  such 
a  pretty  girl  then  !  Somehow,  she  took  a  fancy 
to  me,  and  used  to  help  me  with  my  Practical 
Arithmetic  "  — 

"  So  called  because  it  is  written  in  the  most 
unpractical  and  incomprehensible  style :  yes, 
I  know  it,"  interrupted  the  countess. 

"  Martha  was  much  brighter  than  I  at  it, 
anyhow,  and  used  to  do  my  examples.  She 
used  to  bring  me  the  loveliest  violets ;  she 
would  walk  all  the  way  over  to  the  island  for 
them.  I  remember  I  cried  when  her  people 
moved  to  Chicago  and  she  left  school.  I  did  n't 
see  her  for  almost  ten  years:  then  I  met  her 
accidentally  on  Randolph  Street  in  Chicago. 
She  knew  me,  and  insisted  on  my  going  out 


182  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

with  her  to  see  her  home.  It  was  in  the  sub- 
urbs, and  was  a  very  pretty,  tidy  little  place, 
with  a  garden  in  front,  where  Martha  raised 
vegetables,  and  a  little  plot  for  flowers.  She 
was  so  proud  of  it  all  and  of  her  two  pretty 
babies,  and  showed  me  her  chickens  and  her 
furniture  and  a  picture  of  her  husband.  They 
had  bought  the  house,  and  were  to  pay  for  it  in 
six  years,  but  William  was  getting  high  wages, 
and  she  had  no  fears.     Poor  Martha !  " 

"  Their  Arcadia  did  n't  last  ?  " 

"  No.  William  got  interested  in  trades- 
unions, — there  was  a  strike,  and  he  was  very 
prominent.  He  was  out  of  work  a  long  time, 
and  Martha  supported  the  family  by  taking  in 
sewing  and  selling  the  vegetables.  Then  her 
third  child  was  born,  and  she  was  sick  for  a 
long  time  afterward,  —  she  had  been  working 
too  hard,  poor  thing  !  His  old  employers  took 
William  on  with  the  rest  of  the  men  when  the 
strike  ended,  but  very  soon  found  a  pretext  for 
discharging  him ;  and,  in  short,  they  used  up 
all  their  little  savings,  and  the  house  went. 
William  thought  he  had  been  ill-used,  and  be- 
came more  violent  in  his  opinions." 

"  A  Communist,  is  n't  he  ?  " 

^'  I  believe  so.  Martha  with  her  three  chil- 
dren couldn't  go  out  to  work,  but  she  is  a  model 
housekeeper,  and  she  opened  a  little  laundry 


o 


5? 


A     COMMUNIST'S  WIFE.  183 

with  the  money  she  got  from  the  sale  of  some 
of  their  furniture.  William  got  work,  but  lost 
it  again,  but  Martha  managed  in  a  humble  way 
to  support  the  family  until  William  had  an 
offer,  to  come  here ;  so  they  sold  out  the  laun- 
dry to  get  money  to  moye.' 

"  Very  idiotic  of  them.' 

"  After  they  came  here  they  at  first  lived 
on  Front  Street,  which  is  near  the  river,  and 
Martha  caught  the  chills  and  fever.  William 
soon   lost   his   place,    and   they   moved   across 

the  river  to  D .     He  became  known  as  a 

speaker,  and  things  have  been  going  from  bad 
to  worse ;  the  children  have  come  fast,  and 
Martha  has  never  really  recovered  from  her 
fever ;  and  they  have  had  simply  an  awfully 
hard  time.  I  haven't  seen  Martha  for  three 
months,  and  have  tried  in  vain  to  find  out 
where  she  lived.  Poor  Martha !  she  has  never 
complained,  but  it  has  been  a  hard  life  for 
her." 

"  Yes,  a  hard  life,"  repeated  the  countess, 
rising  and  putting  on  her  jacket ;  "  but  it  seems 
to  me  she  has  chiefly  her  own  husband  to 
thank  for  it.  And  six  children !  I  have  my 
opinion  of  Mr.  William  Bailey." 

"  You  are  hardly  just  to  Bailey,  Helen.  He 
has  sacrificed  his  own  interests  to  his  principles. 
He  is  as  honest  —  as  honest  as  the  Christian 
martyrs,  though  he  is  an  infidel." 


184  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  The  Christian  martyrs  always  struck  me  as 
a  singularly  unpractical  set  of  people,"  said  the 
countess. 

"  Maybe ;  nevertheless,  they  founded  a  reli- 
gion and  changed  the  world.  And,  Helen,  you 
and  the  people  like  you  laugh  at  Commun- 
ism and  the  complaints  of  the  laboring  classes, 
but  it's  like  Samson  and  the  Philistines;  and 
this  Samson,  blind  though  he  is,  will  one  day, 
unless  we  do  something  besides  laugh,  pull  the 
pillars  down  on  his  head  —  and  on  ours." 

"  He  will  ^r?/,"  said  the  countess.  "  If  we  are 
wise,  we  shall  be  ready  and  shoot  him  dead." 
She  kissed  Mrs.  Greymer  smilingly,  and  went 
away.  Her  friend,  watching  her  through  the 
window,  saw  her  stop  to  pat  a  great  dog  on  the 
head  and  give  a  little  boy  a  nickel  piece. 

One  Sunday  afternoon,  two  weeks  later,  the 

two  friends  crossed   the   bridge   to  D to 

visit  the  Baileys.  When  they  reached  the  end 
of  the  bridge  they  paused  a  moment  to  rest. 
The  day  was  one  of  those  warm,  bright  spring 
days  which  deceitfully  presage  an  immediate 
summer.  On  the  river-sbore  crawfishes  were 
lazily  creeping  over  the  gravel.  The  air  rang 
with  the  blue  jay's  chatter,  a  robin  showed  his 
tawny  breast  among  the  withered  grasses,  and 
a  "  flicker  "  on  a  dead  stump  bobbed  his  little 
red-barred  head  and  fluttered  his  yellow  wings. 


A    COMMUNIST'S  WIFE.  185 

Beneatli  the  bridge  the  swift  current  sparkled 
in  the  sun.  Over  the  river,  on  each  side,  rose 
the  hills.  The  gray  stone  of  the  government 
works  was  visible  to  the  right  through  the  leaf- 
less trees;  nearer,  square,  yellow  and  ugh^  stood 
the  old  arsenal.  A  soldier,  musket  on  shoulder, 
marched  along  the  river-edge ;  the  cape  of  his 
coat  fluttered  in  the  breeze,  and  his  slanting 
bayonet  shone  like  silver.      Before   them   lay 

D ,  the  smoke  from   its  mills  and  houses 

curling  into  the  pale  blue  air. 

The  countess  drew  a  long  breath  ;  she  had  a 
keen  feeling  for  beauty.  "  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely 
place,"  she  said.  *'  The  hills  are  not  high 
enough,  but  the  river  makes  amends  for  every- 
thing. But  what  are  those  hideous  shanties, 
Therese  ?  " 

"  Are  they  not  hideous  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Greymer. 
"  They  are  all  pine,  and  it  gets  such  an  ugly 
dirt-black  when  it  isn't  painted.  The  glass  is 
broken  out  of  the  windows,  and  the  shingles 
have  peeled  off  the  roofs.  When  it  rains  the 
water  drips  through.  In  spring,  when  the 
river  rises,  it  comes  up  to  their  very  doors ;  one 
spring  it  came  in.  It  is  not  a  nice  place  to 
live  in." 

"  Not  exactly  ;  still,  I  suppose  people  do  live 
there." 

"  Yes,  the  Baileys  live  there.  You  see,  the 
rent  is  low." 


186  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

The  countess  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  fol- 
lowed Mrs.  Greymer  without  answering.  Some 
sulky-looking  men  were  smoking  pipes  on  the 
doorsteps,  and  a  few  women,  whose  only  Sun- 
day adorning  seemed  to  have  been  plastering 
their  hair  down  over  their  cheeks  with  a  great 
deal  of  water,  gossiped  at  the  corner.  Half  a 
dozen  children  were  playing  on  the  river-bank. 

"  They  fall  in  every  little  while,"  Therese 
explained,  "  they  are  so  small,  and  most  of  the 
mothers  here  go  out  washing.  This  is  the 
Bailevs'." 

William  Bailey  answered  the  knock.  He 
was  a  tall  man,  who  carried  his  large  frame 
with  a  kind  of  muscular  ease.  He  had  a  square, 
gray-whiskered  face  with  firm  jaws  and  mild 
light-blue  eyes.  The  hair  being  worn  away 
from  his  forehead  made  it  seem  higher  than  it 
really  was.  He  wore  his  working  clothes  and 
a  pair  of  very  old  boots  cut  down  into  slippers. 
The  only  stocking  he  had  was  in  his  hand,  and 
he  appeared  to  have  been  darning  it.  Close 
behind  him  came  his  wife,  holding  the  baby. 
The  bright  look  of  recognition  on  her  face  at 
the  sight  of  Mrs.  Greymer  faded  when  she  per- 
ceived the  countess.  Rather  stiffly  she  invited 
them  to  enter. 

The  room  was  small  and  most  meanly  fur- 
nished, but  it  was  clean.    The  walls  were  dingy 


A   COMMUNISTS  WIFE.  187 

beyond  the  power  of  soap  and  water  to  change, 
but  the  floor  had  been  scrubbed,  and  what  glass 
there  was  in  the  windows  had  been  washed. 
There  were  occasional  holes  in  the  ceiling  and 
walls  where  the  plaster  had  given  way  ;  out  of 
one  of  these  peered  the  pointed  nose  and  gleam- 
ing eyes  of  a  great  rat.  Judging  from  sundry 
noises  she  heard,  the  countess  concluded  there 
were  many  of  these  animals  under  the  house, 
though  what  they  found  to  live  on  was  a  puzzle ; 
but  they  ate  a  little  of  the  children  now  and 
then,  and  perhaps  the  hope  of  more  sustained 
them.  A  pale  little  boy  was  lying  on  a  mat- 
tress in  the  corner,  covered  with  a  faded  blue- 
and- white  shawl. 

Therese  had  mysteriously  managed  to  dis- 
pose of  the  basket  she  had  brought  before  she 
went  up  to  him  and  kissed  him,  saying,  "  I  am 
sorry  to  see  Willie  is  still  sick." 

"  Yes,"  said  Bailey,  smiling  bitterly.  *'  The 
doctor  says  he  needs  dry  air  and  exercise ;  it  's 
damp  here." 

''  Tommy  More  has  promised  to  lend  iis  his 
cart,  and  Susie  will  take  him  on  the  island," 
Mrs.  Bailey  said  hastily ;  "  it  's  real  country 
there." 

"  But  you  have  to  have  a  pass,"  answered 
Bailey  in  a  low  tone. 

"  Any  one  can  get  a  pass,"  said  the  countess  ; 


188  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  but  if  you  prefer  I  will  ask  the  colonel  to-day, 
and  he  will  send  you  one  to-morrow." 

For  the  first  time  Bailey  fairly  looked  the 
countess  in  the  face  ;  his  brows  contracted,  he 
opened  his  lips  to  speak. 

"  Oh,  papa,"  cried  the  boy  in  a  weak  voice 
trembling  with  eagerness,  "  the  island  is  splen- 
did !  Tommy's  father  works  there,  and  they 's 
cannon  and  a  foundry  and  a  live  eagle  !  " 

'^  Yes,  Willie  dear,"  said  his  father,  as  he  laid 
his  brown  hand  gently  on  the  boy's  curls.  He 
inclined  his  head  toward  the  countess.  "  I  '11 
thank  you,"  he  said  gravely. 

The  countess  picked  up  a  pamphlet  from  the 
table,  more  to  break  the  uncomfortable  pause 
which  followed  than  for  any  other  reason. 
"Do  you  like  this?"  she  said,  hardly  reading 
the  title. 

"  I  believe  it,"  said  Bailey ;  "  I  am  a  Com- 
munist myself."  He  drew  himself  up  to  his 
full  height  as  he  spoke.  There  was  a  certain 
suppressed  defiance  in  his  attitude  and  expres- 
sion. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  said  the  countess.     *'  Why  ?  " 

"  Why  ?  "  cried  Bailey.  "  Look  at  me !  I  'm 
a  strong  man,  and  willing  to  do  any  kind  of 
work.  I  've  worked  hard  for  sixteen  year ;  I  've 
been  sober  and  steady  and  saving.  Look  what 
all  that  work  and  saving  has  brought  me  !    This 


A   COMMUNISTS  WIFE.  189 

is  a  nice  place  for  a  decent  man  and  his  family 
to  live  in,  ain't  it?  Them  walls  ain't  clean  ? 
No,  because  scrubbing  can't  make  'em.  The 
grime 's  in  the  plaster ;  yes,  and  worse  than 
grime — vermin  and  disease  sech  as  't  ain't  right 
for  me  to  mention  even  to  ladies  like  you,  but 
it 's  right  enough  for  sech  as  us  to  live  in.    Yes, 

by  G !  to  die  in  ! "     He  was   a  man  who 

spoke  habitually  in  a  low  voice,  and  it  had  not 
grown  louder,  but  the  veins  on  his  forehead 
swelled  and  his  eyes  began  to  glow. 

"  It  is  hard,  truly,"  said  the  countess.  "  Whose 
fault  is  it  ?  " 

"  Whose  fault  ?  "  Bailey  repeated  her  words 
vehemently,  yet  with  something  of  bewilder- 
ment. "  Society's  fault,  which  grinds  a  poor 
man  to  powder,  so  as  to  make  a  rich  man  richer. 
But  the  people  won't  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
forever." 

"  You  would  have  a  general  division  of  prop- 
erty, then  ?  " 

"  Indirectly,  yes.  Power  must  be  taken  from 
bloated  corporations  and  given  to  the  people; 
the  railroads  must  be  taken  by  government; 
accumulation  of  capital  over  a  limited  amount 
must  be  forbidden  ;  men  must  work  for  Human- 
ity, and  not  for  their  selfish  interests." 

"  Do  you  know  any  men  who  are  working 
so?" 


190  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"I  know  a  few." 

"  Mostly  workingmen  ?  " 

"  All  workingmen," 

"  Don't  you  think  a  general  division  of  prop- 
erty would  be  for  their  selfish  interests?  " 

"  I  don't  call  it  selfish  to  ask  for  just  a  decent 
living." 

"  I  fancy  the  chiefs  of  your  party  would  de- 
mand a  great  deal  more  than  a  bare  decent  liv- 
ing. Mr.  Bailey,  the  rights  of  property  rest  on 
just  this  fact  in  human  nature:  A  man  will 
work  better  for  himself  than  he  will  for  some- 
body else.  And  you  can't  get  him  to  work  un- 
less he  is  guaranteed  the  fruits  of  his  labor. 
Capital  is  brain,  and  Labor  is  muscle,  but  the 
brain  has  as  much  to  do  with  the  creation  of 
wealth  as  muscle  :  more,  for  it  can  invent  ma- 
chines and  do  without  muscle,  while  muscle 
cannot  do  without  brain.  You  can't  alter 
human  nature,  Mr.  Bailey.  If  you  had  a  Com- 
mune, every  man  would  be  for  himself  there  as 
he  is  here :  the  weak  would  have  less  protection 
than  even  now,  for  all  those  restraints  of  moral- 
ity, which  are  bound  up  inseparabl}^  with  rights 
of  property,  would  have  been  thrown  aside. 
Marx  and  Lasalle  and  Bradlaugh,  clever  as 
they  are,  can't  prevent  the  survival  of  the  fit- 
test. You  knock  your  head  against  a  stone 
wall,  Mr.  Bailey,  when  you  fight  society.     You 


A    COMMUNISTS  WIFE.  191 

have  been  knocking  it  all  your  life,  and  now 
you  are  angry  because  your  head  is  hurt.  If 
you  had  never  tried  to  strip  other  men  of  their 
earnings  because  you  fancied  you  ought  to  have 
more,  as  skillful  a  blacksmith  as  you  would  have 
saved  money  and  been  a  capitalist  himself. 
Supposing  you  give  it  up  ?  Our  firm  will  give 
you  a  chance  to  make  plowshares  and  earn 
twenty  dollars  a  week  if  you  will  only  promise 
not  to  strike  us  in  return  the  first  chance  you 
get." 

The  workingman  had  listened  with  a  curling 
lip.  "  Do  you  mean  that  for  an  offer  ?  "  he  said, 
in  a  smothered  voice. 

"I  mean  it  for  an  offer,  certainly." 

*'  Oh,  William  !  "  cried  his  wife,  turning  ap- 
pealing eyes  up  to  his  face. 

He  grew  suddenly  white,  and  brought  his 
clinched  hand  heavily  down  on  the  table.  The 
dishes  rattled  with  the  jar,  and  the  baby,  scared 
at  the  noise,  began  to  scream.  "  Then,"  said 
Bailey,  "  you  may  just  understand  that  a  man 
ain't  always  a  sneak  if  he  is  poor ;  and  you  can 
be  glad  you  ain't  a  man  that 's  tempting  me  to 
turn  traitor." 

"I  am  sure  my  friend  didn't  mean  to  hurt 
your  feelings,"  Mrs.  Greymer  explained  quickly, 
giving  the  countess  that  expressive  side-glance 
which   much   more   plainly   than   words   says, 


192  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Now  you  have  done  it !  "  Mrs.  Bailey  was 
walking  up  and  down  soothing  the  baby :  the 
little  boy  looked  on  open-eyed. 

"  I  am  sorry  if  I  have  said  anything  which 
has  seemed  like  an  insult,"  said  the  countess ; 
"  I  certainly  did  n't  intend  one.  Perhaps  after 
you  have  thought  it  all  over  you  will  feel  differ- 
ently. You  know  where  to  find  me.  Good- 
evening." 

She  held  out  her  hand,  which  Bailey  did  not 
seem  to  see,  smiled  on  the  little  boy  and  went 
out,  leaving  Mrs.  Greymer  behind. 

A  little  girl  with  pretty  brown  curls  and 
deep-blue  eyes  was  making  sand-caves  on  the 
shore.  The  countess  spoke  to  her  in  passing, 
and  left  her  staring  at  her  two  hands,  which 
were  full  of  silver  coin.  At  the  bridge  the 
countess  paused  to  wait  for  her  friend.  She 
saw  her  come  out,  attended  by  Mrs.  Bailey  : 
she  saw  Mrs.  Bailey  watch  her,  saw  the  little 
girl  give  her  mother  the  money,  and  then  she 
saw  the  woman,  still  carrying  her  baby  in  her 
arms,  walk  slowly  down  the  river  bank  to 
where  a  boat  lay  keel  uppermost  like  a  great 
black  arrowhead  on  the  sand.  Here  she  sat 
down,  and,  clasping  the  child  closer,  hid  her 
face  in  its  white  hair. 

"  And,  upon  my  soul,  I  believe  she  is  crying," 
said   the   spectator,  who  stopped  at  the  com- 


A    COMMUNIST'S  WIFE.  193 

mandant's  house  and  obtained  the  pass  before 
she  went  home. 

On  Monday,  Mrs.  Greymer  proposed  asking 
little  Willie  Bailey  to  spend  a  week  with  them. 
The  countess  assented,  merely  saying,  "  You 
must  take  the  little  skeleton  to  drive  every  day, 
and  send  the  livery -bills  to  me." 

"  Then  I  shall  drive  over  this  afternoon  if 
Freddy's  sore  throat  is  better,"  said  Mrs.  Grey- 
mer. 

But  she  did  not  go :  Freddy's  sore  throat 
was  worse  instead  of  better,  and  his  sister  had 
enough  to  do  for  some  days  fighting  off  diph- 
theria. So  it  happened  that  it  was  a  week  be- 
fore she  was  able  to  go  to  D .     She  found 

the  Baileys'  door  swinging  on  its  hinges,  and 
a  high-stepping  hen  of  inquisitive  disposition 
investigating  the  front  room  :  the  Baileys  had 
gone. 

"  They  went  to  Chicago  four  days  ago,"  an 
amiable  neighbor  explained  ;  "  they  did  n't  say 
what  fur.  The  little  boy  he  cried  'cause  he 
wanted  to  go  on  the  island  fust.  Guess  he  ain't 
like  to  live  long  ;  he  's  a  weak,  pinin'  little 
chap." 

Only  once  did  Therese  hear  from  Mrs.  Bailey. 
The  letter  came  a  few  days  after  her  useless 

drive  to  D .     It  was  dated   Chicago,  and 

expressed  simply  but  fervently  her  gratitude 


194  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

for  all  Mrs.  Greymer's  kindness.  Inclosed 
were  three  one-dollar  bills,  part  payment,  the 
writer  said,  "  of  my  debt  to  Mrs.  von  Arno,  and 
I  hope  she  won't  think  I  meant  to  run  away 
from  it  because  I  can't  just  now  send  more." 
There  was  no  allusion  to  her  present  condition 
or  her  prospects  for  the  future.  Mrs.  Greymer 
read  the  letter  aloud,  then  held  out  the  bills  to 
the  countess. 

She  pushed  them  aside  as  if  they  stung  her. 
"  What  does  the  woman  think  I  am  made  of  ?  " 
she  exclaimed.  "  Why,  it 's  hideous,  Therese  ! 
Write  and  tell  her  I  never  meant  her  to  pay 


me." 


"  I  am  afraid  the  letter  won't  reach  her," 
said  Mrs.  Greymer. 

Nor  did  it.  In  due  course  of  time  Therese 
received  her  own  letter  back  from  the  Dead- 
Letter  Office.  The  words  of  interest  and  sym- 
pathy, the  plans  and  encouragement,  sounded 
very  oddly  to  her  then,  for,  as  far  as  they  were 
concerned,  Martha  Bailey's  history  was  ended. 
It  was  in  July  the  countess  had  met  them  again. 
She  was  in  Chicago.  Otto  was  dead.  He  had 
given  back  to  his  wife  by  his  will  the  property 
which  had  come  to  him  through  her,  —  whether 
because  of  a  late  sense  of  justice  or  a  dislike  to 
his  heir,  a  distant  cousin  who  wrote  theological 
works   and   ate  with   his   knife,   the    countess 


A    COMMUNIST'S  WIFE.  195 

never  ventured  to  decide.  The  condition  of 
part  of  this  property,  which  was  in  Chicago, 
had  obliged  her  to  go  there.  She  arrived  on 
the  evening  of  the  fifteenth  of  July  —  a  day 
Chicago  people  remember  because  the  great 
railroad  strike  of  1877  reached  the  city  that 
day. 

The  countess  found  the  air  full  of  wild  ru- 
mors. Stories  of  shops  closed  by  armed  men, 
of  vast  gatherings  of  Communists  on  the  North 
Side,  of  robbery,  bloodshed,  and  —  to  a  Chicago 
ear  most  blood-curdling  whisper  of  all  —  of  a 
contemplated  second  burning  of  the  city,  flew 
like  prairie-fire  through  the.  streets. 

The  countess's  lawyer,  whom  she  had  visited 
very  early  on  Thursday  morning,  msisted  on 
accompanying  her  from  his  office  to  her  friend's 
house  on  the  North  Side.  On  Halstead  Street 
their  carriage  suddenly  stopped.  Putting  her 
head  out  of  the  window,  the  countess  perceived 
that  the  coachman  had  drawn  up  close  to  the 
curbstone  to  avoid  the  onset  of  a  yelling  mob 
of  boys  and  men  armed  with  every  description 
of  weapon,  from  laths  and  brickbats  to  old  mus- 
kets. The  boys  appeared  to  regard  the  whole 
affair  as  merely  a  gigantic  "spree,"  and  shouted 
"  Bread  or  Blood  !  "  with  the  heartiest  enthu- 
siasm ;  but  the  men  marched  closer,  in  silence, 
and  with  set  faces.     The  gleaming  black  eyes, 


196  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

sharp  features,  and  tangled  black  hair  of  half 
of  them  showed  their  Polish  or  Bohemian  blood. 
The  others  were  Norwegians  and  Germans,  with 
a  sprinkling  of  Irish  and  Americans.  Their 
leader  was  a  tall  man  whom  the  countess  knew. 
He  had  turned  to  give  an  order  when  she  saw 
him.  At  that  same  instant  a  shabby  woman 
ran  swiftly  from  a  side  street,  and  tried  to  throw 
her  arms  about  the  man's  neck.  He  pushed 
her  aside,  and  the  crowd  swept  them  both  out 
of  sight. 

"  I  think  I  have  seen  a  woman  I  know,"  said 
the  countess  composedly  ;  "  and  do  you  know, 
Mr.  Wilder,  that  our  horses  have  gone  ?  Our 
Communist  friends  prefer  riding  to  walking,  it 
seems."  They  were  obliged  to  get  out  of  the 
carriage.  The  countess  looked  up  and  down 
the  street,  but  saw  no  trace  of  the  woman. 
Apparently,  she  had  followed  the  mob. 

By  this  time  some  small  boys,  inspired  by 
the  occasion,  had  begun  to  show  their  sympathy 
with  oppressed  labor  by  pelting  the  two  well- 
dressed  strangers  with  potatoes  and  radishes, 
which  they  confiscated  from  a  bloated  capitalist 
of  a  grocer  on  the  corner.  The  shower  was  so 
thick  that  Mr.  Wilder  was  relieved  when  they 
reached  the  Halstead  street  police  -  station, 
where  they  sought  refuge.  Here  they  passed 
a  sufficiently  exciting  hour.     They  could  hear 


A   COMMUNISTS  WIFE.  197 

plainly  the  sharp  crack  of  revolvers  and  the 
yells  and  shouts  of  the  angry  mob  blending  in 
one  indistinguishable  roar.  Once  a  barefooted 
boy  ran  by,  screaming  that  the  police  were 
driven  back  and  the  Communists  were  coming. 
Then  a  troop  of  cavalry  rode  up  the  street  on  a 
sharp  trot,  their  bridles  jingling  and  horses' 
hoofs  clattering.  The  roar  grew  louder,  ebbed, 
swelled  again,  then  broke  into  a  multitude  of 
sounds  —  screams,  shouts,  and  the  tumultuous 
rush  of  many  feet. 

A  polite  sergeant  opened  the  door  of  the  lit- 
tle room  where  the  countess  was  sittino^  to  in- 
form  her  the  riot  was  over.  They  were  just 
bringing  in  some  prisoners  :  he  was  very  sorry, 
but  one  of  them  would  have  to  come  in  there. 
He  was  a  prominent  rioter  whom  they  had  cap- 
tured trying  to  bring  off  the  body  of  his  wife, 
who  had  been  killed  by  a  chance  shot.  It 
would  be  only  for  a  short  time  :  the  gentleman 
had  gone  for  a  carriage.  He  hoped  the  lady 
would  n't  mind. 

The  lady,  who  had  changed  color  slightly, 
said  she  should  not  mind.  The  sergeant  held 
the  door  back,  and  some  men  brought  in  some- 
thing over  which  had  been  flung  an  old  blue- 
and-white  shawl.  They  carried  it  on  a  shutter, 
and  the  folds  of  a  calico  dress,  torn  and  tram- 
pled, hung  down  over  the  side. 


198  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Then  came  two  policemen,  pushing  after  the 
official  manner  a  man  covered  with  dust  and 
blood. 

"  Bailey  !  "  exclaimed  the  countess.  Their 
eyes  met. 

Bailey  bent  his  head  toward  the  table  where 
the  men  had  laid  their  burden.  "  Lift  that," 
he  said  hoarsely. 

The  countess  lifted  the  shawl  with  a  steady 
hand.  There  was  an  old  white  straw  bonnet 
flattened  down  over  the  forehead  ;  a  wisp  of 
blue  ribbon  string  was  blown  across  the  face 
and  over  the  red  smear  between  the  eyebrow 
and  the  hair  ;  the  eyes  stared  wide  and  glassy. 
But  it  was  the  same  soft  brown  hair.  The 
countess  knew  Martha  Bailey. 

"There  was  women  and  children  on  the  side- 
walk, but  they  fired  right  into  us,"  said  Bailey. 
He  spoke  in  a  monotonous,  dragging  voice,  as 
though  every  word  were  an  effort.  "  They 
killed  her.  I  asked  you  to  give  me  work  in 
your  shop,  and  you  would  n't  do  it.  Here 's 
the  end  of  it.  Now  you  can  go  home  and  say 
your  prayers." 

"  I  don't  say  prayers,"  answered  the  countess, 
"and  you  know  I  offered  you  work.  But  don't 
let  us  reproach  each  other  here.  Where  are 
your  children?" 

"  Ain't  you  satisfied  with  what  you  have  done 


A   COMMUNIST'S  WIFE.  199 

already?"    said   Bailey.     "Leave   me   alone; 
you  'd  better." 

"  Gently  now  !  "  said  one  of  the  policemen. 

"  Whatever  you  may  think  of  me,"  said  the 
countess  quietly,  "you  know  Mrs.  Greymer  was 
always  your  wife's  friend.  We  only  wanted  to 
help  her." 

Bailey  shook  off  the  grasp  of  the  policeman 
as  though  it  had  been  a  feather  :  with  one  great 
stride  he  reached  the  countess  and  caught  her 
roughly  by  the  wrist.  "  Look  at  her^  will  you  ?  " 
he  cried  ;  "  you  and  the  likes  of  you,  with  your 
smooth  cant,  have  killed  her !  You  crush  us 
and  starve  us  till  we  turn,  and  then  you  shoot 
us  down  like  dogs.     Leave  my  children  alone." 

"  None  of  that,  my  man  !  "  said  the  sergeant. 

The  two  policemen  would  have  pulled  Bailey 
away,  but  the  countess  stopped  them.  She  had 
turned  pale  even  to  her  lips,  but  she  did  not 
wince. 

"  Curse  you  !  "  groaned  the  Communist,  fling- 
ing his  arms  above  his  head  ;  "  curse  a  society 
which  lets  such  things  be  !  curse  a  religion  "  — 

The  policemen  dragged  him  back.  "  You  'd 
better  go,  I  think,  ma'am,"  said  the  sergeant  ; 
"  the  man  's  half  crazy  with  the  sun  and  fight- 
ing and  grief." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  the  countess.  She 
stopped  at  the  station  door  to  put  a  bill  in  the 


200  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

policeman's  hands :  "  You  will  find  out  about 
the  children  and  let  me  know,  please." 

Mr.  Wilder,  who  had  been  standing  in  the 
doorway,  an  amazed  witness  of  the  whole  scene, 
led  her  out  to  the  carriage.  "  He 's  a  bad  fel- 
low, that  rioter,"  he  said,  as  they  drove  along. 

The  countess  pulled  her  cuff  over  a  black 
mark  on  her  wrist.  "  No,  he  is  not  half  a  bad 
fellow,"  she  answered,  "  but  for  all  that  he  has 
murdered  his  wife." 

Nor  has  she  ever  changed  her  opinion  on  that 
point ;  neither,  so  far  as  is  known,  has  William 
Bailey  changed  his. 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON   LAKE   PEPIN. 

A    STUDY. 

The  Alfred  McGinnis  was  passing  through 
Lake  Pepin,  It  was  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
of  a  June  day,  1878.  On  the  lower  deck  groups 
of  "  roustabouts "  were  scattered  among  the 
flour  barrels,  at  the  foot  of  a  row  of  monster 
threshing  machines  which  glistened  with  red 
paint ;  the  upper  deck  was  crowded ;  and  ten 
women  all  wearing  black  —  not  in  mourning 
for  dead  kindred  but  because  they  were  trav- 
eling —  admired  the  Mississippi  from  the  pilot- 
house. 

The  boat  had  rounded  point  No  Point  (whose 
facetious  character  had  been  duly  explained  by 
the  pilot)  ;  and  nothing  was  now  to  be  seen 
save  the  wide  stretch  of  steel-gray  waters,  soft- 
ening into  blue  with  the  distance ;  and  on  either 
side,  the  high,  steep  hills.  The  ragged  line  of 
hill-tops  was  pierced  by  the  underlying  rock 
into  a  fantastic  semblance  of  ruined  forts  and 
castles,  or  dented  by  vast  hollows  which  might 
easily  have  served  for  amphitheatres ;  as  though 


202  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

some  vanished  race  had  here  lived  and  fought 
and  kept  barbaric  festivals.  Nature  subtly 
aided  the  fancy  with  a  profusion  of  shrubbery 
flung  over  the  crumbling  walls  and  here  and 
there  a  slender  umber  streak  climbing  up  the 
hillside,  marvelously  like  a  foot-path. 

All  this  landscape  wore  the  sumptuous  tints 
of  early  summer.  Sombre  masses  of  pine  and 
dull  red  brown  rocks  intensified  the  effect  of 
the  yellow  green  of  the  maples  and  the  white 
green  of  the  willows  and  the  bars  of  green  sun- 
light burning  along  the  grass  between  the 
shadows.  The  sun  had  not  yet  dropped  below 
the  horizon,  there  were  no  flaming  hues,  but 
the  sky  was  filled  with  soft  grays  and  silver 
mists  floating  in  a  sea  of  tender  blue,  and  away 
to  the  southwest  a  dark  blue  circle  looked  out 
from  a  halo  of  dazzling  white  light. 

A  lady  and  gentleman  who  had  just  come  on 
to  the  hurricane  deck  paused  a  moment  to  gaze 
at  this  scene.  They  were  both  young  and  the 
lady  was  beautiful.  Her  beauty  was  of  that 
English  type  which  New  England  has  preserved, 
or  possibly  revived ;  there  were  the  fair,  broad 
brow,  the  pale  gold  hair,  the  mildly  Roman 
profile,  the  exquisite  coloring,  and  the  charming 
figure  of  English  loveliness.  Usually  such 
beauty  in  the  American  is  etherealized,  one 
might  almost  say  attenuated  ;  she  is  a  thought 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    203 

too  slender, — often  she  is  a  thought  too  pale. 
Mrs.  Berkely,  the  lady  in  question,  was  slender 
but  she  was  not  too  pale ;  the  women  on  the 
boat  had  said  with  a  sigh,  "  What  complexions 
those  Boston  girls  do  have  !  "  They  inferred 
that  she  came  from  Boston  because  of  her  erect 
carriage,  her  soft,  distinct  intonations,  the  some- 
what cold  reserve  of  her  manner,  and  the  severe 
elegance  of  her  toilet,  —  "  prim,"  I  think,  was 
the  word  used.  Nevertheless  Mrs.  Berkely  was 
not  a  Boston  girl,  she  was  a  native  of  Pittsfield, 
Massachusetts,  a  delightful  town  where  they 
have  ancestors,  go  to  Europe  at  decent  intervals, 
and  play  whist  according  to  Cavendish. 

Until  she  was  twenty-three  Ethel  Berkely 
had  performed,  most  conscientiously  all  the 
duties  pertaining  to  that  station  in  life  to  which 
a  Pittsfield  girl  is  called,  including  the  jour- 
neys to  Europe  and  a  trip  up  the  Nile,  which 
may  be  considered  as  a  work  of  supererogation. 
She  was,  also,  extremely  clever  and  she  played 
a  strong  game  of  whist,  never  hesitating  to  sac- 
rifice her  own  hand  to  her  partner's.  When 
she  was  twenty-three  she  married  Captain  John 
Clarence  Berkely  of  the  United  States  army. 
Since  their  marriage,  now  some  three  years, 
they  had  been  stationed  West,  and  it  had  struck 
them  both  as  a  picturesque  scheme  to  explore 
the  upper  Mississippi.     Captain  Berkely  was 


204  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

standing  b}^  his  wife's  side.  He  was  rather  a 
tall  young  man,  thin  and  dark,  with  fine  brown 
eyes  and  an  unobtrusive  brown  mustache. 
Only  his  square  shoulders  and  the  gentle  indif- 
ference of  his  expression  betrayed  the  army. 
He  wore  a  gray  plaid  traveling  suit  and  had 
that  appearance  of  having  very  recently  attired 
himself  w^hich  is  produced  by  immaculately 
stiff  and  white  linen.  As  he  was  using  his  hat 
for  a  fan,  one  could  see  that  what  little  hair 
the  barber  had  left  him  was  parted  in  the  centre, 
a  fact  which  had  already  excited  the  unfavora- 
ble comments  of  the  captain,  the  two  pilots,  and 
three  fourths  of  the  passengers  of  the  Alfred 
McGinnis. 

The  couple  had  been  exhaustively  discussed. 
They  were  regarded  (on  the  grounds  of  their 
youth  and  expensive  clothing)  as  newly  married 
people,  and  their  avoidance  of  the  boat  society 
was  charitably  ascribed  to  the  pardonable  ab- 
sorption of  lovers.  Fortunately  for  EtlieFs 
peace  of  mind  such  an  explanation  of  numerous 
kindly  but  curious  glances  and  inquiries  had 
never  occurred  to  her.  She  was,  indeed,  more 
interested  in  the  people  whom  she  met  than 
one  would  have  imagined  from  her  manner  — 
one,  that  is,  who  did  not  know  Pittsfield.  At 
the  present  moment  she  was  questioning  her 
husband  about  the  cabin.  What  were  they 
doing,  John,  and  who  were  there  ? 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    205 

John  was  not  interested;  he  looked  bored. 
*'  Oh,  the  usual  thing.  There  are  only  two 
new  arrivals,  two  youthful  beings  from  Texas 
on  their  wedding  journey.  They  came  on  at 
Winona.  She  is  singing,  ''Tis  but  a  Little 
Faded  Flower,'  and  he  sits  near  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  looking  blissful.  Then  there 's 
an  old  German  fast  asleep  and  some  women 
talking  about  their  'hired  girls,'  and  forward 
there 's  a  Methodist  minister  reading  his  Bible." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  a  Methodist  min- 
ister ?  " 

"  The  looks  and  the  coat  of  him,  my  dear. 
I  can  always  pick  out  the  clergy.  Episcopalians 
wear  white  cravats  and  have  their  waistcoats 
cut  high,  and  if  they  are  high  church  they  have 
loner  skirts  to  their  coats  :  the  more  '  advanced ' 
their  views  the  longer  their  coats  are.  Presby- 
terians wear  white  cravats  but  their  waistcoats 
haven't  the  clerical  cut.  Congregationalists 
lean  to  black  cravats.  Unitarians  are  quite  un- 
re^enerate  in  their  dress,  and  the  Methodist 
parson  from  the  country  you  can  always  tell 
by  his  black  alpaca  coat  and  the  frayed  edges 
to  his  shirt  collar.  Our  friend  is  a  Methodist, 
perad venture  a  revivalist ;  now  I  think  of  it,  he 
had  that  kind  of  disapproving-of-everything-in- 
general  aspect  which  marks  the  Man  in  Ear- 
nest ! " 


206  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  He  may  be  a  good,  humble-minded  man, 
John." 

"  And  read  his  Bible  in  the  face  of  all  men  ? 
Ethel,  there  is  a  natural  religious  modesty  which 
he  outrages.  I  feel  convinced  he  is  a  narrow- 
minded  prig." 

Ethel  looked  at  her  husband.  He  fancied 
that  there  was  a  slightly  wistful  expression  in 
her  beautiful  violet  eyes,  but  without  answering 
she  turned  them  again  to  the  river  and  the 
hills ;  although  she  was  so  clever  she  was  not 
ready  of  speech.  He  wondered  what  she  was 
thinking,  yet  did  not  ask  her,  for  they  held 
widely  divergent  opinions  upon  some  vital  ques- 
tions, and  he  rarely  cared  to  define  their  differ- 
ences by  discussion.  Ethel  was  the  first  to 
speak,  changing  the  subject  in  the  abrupt  fash- 
ion of  people  who  know  each  other  well.  "See, 
John,  there  is  a  little  house  all  by  itself ! 
Should  n't  you  think  the  man  who  lives  there 
must  be  lonely  ?" 

"  Perhaps  he  is  fond  of  solitude.  I  should 
like  a  little  box  like  that  myself  —  with  you !  " 

"  Resign  and  have  one." 

"  I  wonder  why  I  don't  resign,"  said  Berkely 
moodily.  "  I  suppose  because  I  am  not  fit  for 
anything  else,  and  I  have  a  weak-minded  aver- 
sion to  lounging  about  on  my  wife's  money. 
But  it  isn't  because  I  admire  the  way  they 
manage  things  that  I  stay." 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    207 

"  This  is  the  worst  of  possible  worlds,  is  n't 
it  ?  "  said  Ethel  smiling. 

"  Very  nearly." 

"  Are  you  then  so  unhappy,  John  ?  " 

"On  the  contrary,  if  it  were  not  for  those 
impertinent  pilot-house  windows  which  prevent 
my  putting  my  arm  about  your  waist  I  should 
be  uncommonly  serene." 

Ethel  shook  her  pretty  head.  "  John,  you 
are  a  dreadful  justification  of  Mr.  Mallock  ! 
You  seem  always  shrugging  your  shoulders  and 
saying,  'But  as  for  me,  the  life  that  now  is  is 
not  worth  the  living  ! '  " 

"  Well,  Ismene's  cynicism  proved  very  shal- 
low ;  perhaps  mine  is  too."  Ethel  shook  her 
head  again  ;  there  fell  a  little  silence  which 
the  voices  from  the  pilot-house  penetrated. 

"  I  had  a  lady  friend,  and  her  husband,  he 
was  drowned.  He  put  his  life  preserver  around 
her  and  she  seen  him  raise  and  sink,  raise  and 
sink,  till  he  went  down,  and  could  n't  do  a 
thing  !  They  saved  her  and  she  's  living  now, 
but  nobody  ever  seen  her  laugh  or  be  lively 
again  ;  and  it 's  ten  years  now !  " 

"  That  was  dreadful !  But  do  you  think  it 
jest  right  to  be  so  unresigned  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,  Mrs.  Wattles  ;  it  used  to  make 
me  feel  bad  to  be  with  her.  I  don't  think  peo- 
ple ought  to  grieve  so  ;  they  make  everybody 


208  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

'round  kinder  relieved  like  wten  they  're  out 
of  sight.  There  's  a  hymn  I  'm  very  fond  of,  — 
maybe  you  know  it :  '  Go  bury  thy  sorrow,  the 
world  hath  its  share.'  " 

"  That  's  sound  doctrine,"  interposed  the 
pilot's  hearty  voice,  "  if  it  is  poetry."  ("  Not 
much  poetry,  if  it  is  the  hymn  I  know,"  mut- 
tered Berkely.) 

A  woman's  voice  joined  the  conversation,  a 
high -keyed,  ear-disturbing  voice  with  long- 
drawn  falling  inflections  and  the  flat  Western 
accent,  which  together  made  her  sentences  a 
succession  of  wails. 

"  That  hymn  was  a  great  favoryte  of  cousin 
Lou's,  she  that  went  to  Kansas,  Mrs.  Wattles. 
Goodness  knows  she  'd  enough  to  bury  out 
there  ;  no  wood,  no  water  and  the  wind  strong 
enough  to  blow  the  soul  out  of  your  body,  living 
in  a  sod  house,  too,  and  snakes  crawling  round 
in  the  walls  and  dropping  down  on  you  in  bed 
at  night,  unexpected  like,  rain  soaking  through, 
—  when  there  was  rain,  —  a  mortgage  on  the 
farm  and  the  'hoppers  eating  up  their  crops 
bare  two  years  running,  and  she  with  her  eight 
children  and  three  of  them  dying  in  one  sum- 
mer !  I  think  she  did!  And  then  soon  's  they  'd 
got  things  fixed  up  a  little,  trees  planted  and  a 
well  dug  and  a  two-story  frame  with  blinds 
built  —  then   poor   Lou   has   to   die.     And  he 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    209 

posted  off  to  Blue   Rapids,  six  months  after, 
and  married  a  girl  of  sixteen  !    Oh,  the  men  1 " 

"  Well,  you  'd  have  somebody  enjoy  that 
new  house,  wouldn't  you  ?  "  said  the  pilot. 

"No,  I  wouldn't  —  for  the  gracious  sakes, 
Mr.  Ripley,  what  makes  this  boat  shake  so  ?  " 

The  captain  had  walked  briskly  into  the 
pilot-house  and  whispered  a  few  words  to  the 
pilot.  "There  isn't  the  least  danger,  ladies," 
he  said  impatiently,  "  we  're  jest  going  ashore, 
that 's  all." 

"  Is  there  any  danger,  John  ?  "  said  Ethel, 
drawing  nearer  her  husband. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,  dear,"  said  John,  privately 
thinking  quite  the  reverse  and  measuring  the 
length  of  a  possible  swim  with  his  eye.  "  There 's 
the  parson,  though,  coming  up  the  stairway; 
I  '11  tackle  him  if  you  like  and  find  out  all  about 
it." 

He  walked  up  to  a  tall,  gaunt  man  with  a 
prominent  nose  and  a  stiff  black  beard.  The 
new-comer  wore  the  black  alpaca  coat  which 
Berkely  had  mentioned,  and  his  nether  garments 
of  black  broadcloth  had  an  unintentional  baggi- 
ness  at  the  knees.  He  said  "  Hey  ?  "  in  a  loud 
voice  to  Berkely 's  first  question,  but  the  subse- 
quent conversation  was  unintelligible.  At  all 
events  it  was  reassuring,  since  Berkely  saun- 
tered back  smiling  and  told  his  wife  there  was 


210  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

something  tlie  matter  with  the  machinery  and 
they  were  going  ashore  for  an  hour  or  so  to  re- 
pair things.     That  was  all. 

By  this  time  the  boat  was  grinding  against 
the  side  of  an  almost  perpendicular  bluff.  To 
the  right,  the  grassy  wall  was  cleft  by  a  deep 
and  long  ravine  in  which  stood  a  small  house 
of  unpainted  pine  wood,  the  same  house  which 
Ethel  had  noticed  a  short  time  before.  Behind 
the  house  on  the  flat  lands  was  a  wheat  field, 
a  rectangle  of  vivid  green  over  which  ran  rip- 
ples of  sunlight  as  the  wheat  swayed  in  the 
wind.  The  house  door  swung  on  its  hinges, 
and  the  doorway  framed  the  figure  of  a  man 
holding  a  wide  straw  hat  a  little  above  his  head. 
Rather  to  Ethel's  surprise  their  fellow  traveler 
in  the  black  alpaca  coat  instantly  waved  his 
own  hat,  as  if  in  response  to  a  signal,  and  ran 
hastily  down  the  stairway.  A  few  moments 
later  he  appeared  on  shore,  carrying  a  large 
newspaper  bundle  and  a  shabby  black  leather 

bag. 

*'  Apparently  has  intentions  of  sojourning 
here,"  said  Berkely ;  ''  do  you  care  to  go,  too, 
Ethel  ?  " 

"  I  don't  mind,  if  it 's  not  muddy." 

"  Dry  as  Dr.  Todd.  Let  me  take  your  um- 
brella."     ■ 

They  found  a  natural  foot-path  and,  being  in 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    211 

the  humor,  climbed  to  a  grass  overgrown  ledge 
of  rocks,  half  way  up  the  bluff.  There  they 
paused  to  rest,  saying  little,  but  if  one  might 
judge  from  their  attitude  not  dissatisfied  with 
each  other's  quiet  society.  Finally,  Berkely 
proposed  a  descent  on  "  the  hermit." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  is  a  hermit  ?  "  said 
Ethel :  "  he  may  be  an  honest  farmer  with  half 
a  dozen  children." 

*'  No,"  answered  a  voice,  so  near  that  Berkely 
abruptly  took  his  arm  from  his  wife's  waist, 
"  no,  he  is  as  lonely  as  you  could  wish  !  " 

"  May  I  ask  "  —  began  Berkely  haughtily, 
looking  at  the  stranger  who  had  emerged  from 
the  sheltering  rocks  and  now  stood  before  them. 

*'  I  came  up  on  the  other  side,"  interrupted 
the  man  without  the  customary  smile  of  expla- 
nation. "Would  you  like  to  see  my  place, 
ma'am  ?  " 

He  lifted  his  hat  as  he  spoke,  revealing  a 
high  projecting  forehead  and  a  sallow,  sunken- 
cheeked  face.  Under  the  shadow  of  his  over- 
bearing forehead,  his  large  blue  eyes  looked 
out,  veiled  with  an  absent-minded  mist.  His 
sunburned  hair  and  beard  were  so  vilely  cut  that 
Berkely  decided  on  the  spot  that  he  had  been 
his  own  barber  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  He  was 
short  but  muscular  enough.  His  costume  was 
a  singular  combination  of  a  threadbare  black 


212  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

frock  coat,  gray  flannel  shirt,  and  blue  overalls. 
Thus  clad,  and  absolutely  unconscious,  it  ap- 
peared, of  the  grotesqueness  of  his  dress,  he 
stood  unsmilingly  waiting  Ethel's  answer.  Yet 
he  seemed  pleased  in  a  sullen  and  repressed 
fashion  when  his  invitation  was  accepted,  and 
at  once  led  the  way  to  the  house. 

Ethel  noticed  that  a  vine  had  been  trained 
against  the  side  of  the  house,  and  there  were 
pansies  blooming  in  a  little  flower-bed  near  the 
door.  The  room  which  they  entered  was  both 
unpainted  and  unplastered  ;  a  table,  chairs,  and 
stove  completed  the  meagre  list  of  its  furniture ; 
and  its  sole  ornament  was  a  black  easel  very 
neatly  decorated  with  forget-me-nots,  which 
held  the  crayon  picture  of  a  lady  and  child. 
Both  the  visitors  glanced  at  the  picture.  The 
lady  had  a  delicate,  pretty  face,  but  did  not 
look  happy  although  she  was  smiling ;  the  child 
was  a  fine  little  fellow  with  a  large  forehead 
and  eyes  like  the  master  of  the  house.  The 
latter  laid  his  hand  on  the  frame,  saying,  "  Do 
you  think  it  a  pretty  picture  ?  " 

"  Very,"  answered  Berkely ;  "  is  the  lady 
your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  was  my  wife,"  said  the  man,  "  she  is 
dead." 

"  Oh,  I  beg  pardon,"  Berkely  exclaimed. 

'•'  You  need  n't,  you  've  done  no  harm,"  said 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    213 

the  hermit.  "  Won't  you  sit  down,  please  ? 
And  I  have  n't  asked  you  to  take  anything ; 
I  've  some  coffee  on  the  stove  and  fresh  bread 
and  butter,  and  I  '11  answer  for  the  eggs  since 
I  keep  chickens  myself."  He  set  plates  on  the 
table,  bestirring  himself  with  an  air  of  eager 
hospitality  which  his  visitors'  politeness  could 
not  resist. 

"  Besides,"  Berkely  whispered,  during  a  tem- 
porary absence  of  the  hermit  for  eggs,  "  noth- 
ing can  be  worse  than  the  boat !  " 

They  had  no  reason  to  repent  their  confidence, 
for  they  found  the  simple  fare  excellent.  Their 
host  sat  with  them,  crumbling  a  piece  of  bread 
but  drinking  nothing;  perhaps  he  had  only  the 
two  cups,  Ethel  said  afterwards.  He  did  not 
seem  reluctant  to  speak  of  himself  or  of  his 
lonely  life.  He  lived  by  his  little  farm,  —  not 
his  own,  only  rented.  In  summer  he  loaded  a 
skiff  with  his  wheat,  and  rowed  to  the  mill  six 
miles  farther  down  the  river ;  in  winter  he  drew 
what  few  provisions  he  needed  on  a  sled,  skating 
himself.  Yes,  it  was  lonely,  but  he  had  his  dog 
and  his  chickens  for  company.  "  I  've  seen 
enough  of  men,"  he  said  grimly. 

"I  fear  you  have  had  a  hard  life,"  said 
Berkely,  "  do  you  mind  telling  us  something  of 
it?" 

"  No,"  said  the  hermit,  "  I  don't  mind.     I  '11 


214  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

never,  most  likely,  see  you  again,  and  sometimes 
it 's  a  relief  to  talk.  When  I  saw  you  to-day 
sitting  there  together,  so  happy"  (the  dismay 
on  Ethel's  face  was  reflected  in  Berkely's),  "  I 
felt  a  sudden  longing  to  talk  again  with  a  good 
woman.  For  four  years  I  have  n't  talked  — 
except  about  wheat  and  such  things  —  to  any 
man  but  Wesley  Mitchel.  I  was  seized  with  a 
sudden  desire  to  have  some  fair-minded  person 
judge  my  whole  case  ;  I  'm  tired  of  running  it 
over  in  my  own  mind.  I  know  all  Wesley  has 
to  say  —  but  you  are  different  I  Does  this 
strike  you  as  very  extraordinary,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it  does,"  said  Ethel,  flush- 
ing slightly  beneath  her  husband's  curious  eyes. 
"  I  think  I  understand  —  a  little  —  what  you 
mean." 

''  Thank  you,"  said  the  hermit,  "  I  will  tell 
3'ou  the  whole  story.  My  name  is  Herman 
Witte.  ^l\  parents  were  Germans  who  came 
to  America  when  I  was  ten,  and  my  mother 
died  the  year  after.  She  was  a  good  woman 
and  her  folks  were  well  off  in  Germany,  but 
she  offended  them  by  marrying  father,  who  was 
only  a  foreman  in  a  foundry.  He  was  n't  even 
that  long,  for  he  fell  first  into  socialism  and 
then  into  drink,  and  the  upshot  was  he  came 
over  here  —  to  Pittsburgh,  Pennsylvania.  He 
got  work  in  the  iron  mills  there  easy  enough, 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    215 

and  he  was  a  first-class  workman,  too,  when  he 
was  half  sober.  He  married  another  German 
woman  after  mother  died  ;  she  was  n't  very 
good,  but  she  was  good  enough  for  him.  There 
were  seven  boys  of  us,  and  we  all  worked  in  the 
iron  works.  I  worked  there  till  I  was  twenty, 
then  I  was  converted  by  a  Methodist  preacher ; 
and,  sir,  if  ever  a  man  longed  and  prayed  and 
agonized  to  lead  a  better  life  I  did.  The 
preacher  was  interested  in  me,  especially  when 
my  father  knocked  me  down  and  swore  he  'd 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with,  such  a  canting 
hypocrite.  I  've  no  doubt  that  to  this  day  I  'm 
an  illustration  in  his  sermons.  He  got  me  into 
a  school  where  they  give  a  weekly  stipend  to 
students  who  engage  to  enter  the  ministry ; 
then  I  went  to  the  seminary,  and  when  the  war 
broke  out  I  went  as  chaplain.  I  served  through 
the  war,  saw  some  fighting,  and  had  a  mild 
touch  of  yellow  fever,  but  came  out  all  right 
and  got  my  first  parish.  It  was  in  Iowa ;  I 
thought  I  'd  like  the  West,  so  went  there.  It 
was  in  my  first  parish  I  met  my  wife,  —  her 
father  was  one  of  the  prominent  men  of  my 
church.  I  can't  say  much  about  my  feeling  for 
her,  but  if  —  if  you've  ever  known  anybody, 
sir,  who  seemed  to  represent  everything  pure 
and  good  and  beautiful  to  you,  making  you  feel 
like  some  great  clumsy  animal  crawling  out  of 


216  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

a  slough,  not  fit  to  be  in  such  a  presence,  even 
—  you  are  not  likely  to  have  felt  that  way,  but 
if  you  have  ever  seen  anybody  who  seemed  to 
be  doing  naturally  and  inevitably  what  you 
pant  and  struggle  and  fail  to  do,  whose  thoughts 
the  angels  must  love  to  look  at  because  there  's 
no  soil  in  them,  who  makes  you  despise  yourself 
and  hope  for  yourself  at  the  same  time  —  if  you 
have  known  any  one  like  that.,  sir  "  — 

"  Yes,"  said  Berkely,  "  I  have  known  some 
one  like  that."  He  was  sitting  near  Ethel  and 
he  laid  his  hand  gently  on  hers. 

The  hermit  looking  up  suddenly,  smiled  for 
the  first  time.  "I  see,  I  see,"  he  said.  "Well, 
sir,  I  loved  my  wife  as  you  love  yours.  I  loved 
her  for  two  years,  not  daring  to  tell  her  so,  for 
I  could  n't  forget  how  I  was  raised ;  why,  sir, 
the  uncouth  habits  and  speech  of  childhood  and 
youth  are  sticking  to  me  still.  I  was  glad  my 
family  had  quarreled  with  me,  glad  they  'd  left 
Pittsburgh,  glad  I  'd  lost  all  trace  of  them,  but 
still  there  they  were  and  I  had  belonged  to 
them !     I  don't  know  how  I  dared  to  speak  to 

• 

her  finally.  I  think  it  was  her  father's  death, 
leaving  her  all  alone  in  the  world,  for  her 
mother  had  been  dead  many  years  and  her  re- 
lations all  lived  East.  Then,  Dr.  Wilson  had 
been  too  generous  a  man  to  die  rich,  and  the 
life  insurance  failed  because  of  some  informality. 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    217 

You  know  the  tricks  of  those  fellows,  sir.  Well, 
I  had  to  tell  Emily  the  news,  and  somehow  I 
was  emboldened  to  speak.  Then  —  think  what 
it  was  to  me,  ma'am  —  I  found  she  loved  me, 
and  had  loved  me  for  months,  me  !  "  He  was 
sitting  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  talk- 
ing most  of  the  time  to  a  crack  in  the  table  ; 
now,  by  a  slight  movement  of  the  shoulders,  he 
shielded  his  face  from  view.  It  was  a  move- 
ment exceedingly  suggestive. 

In  a  moment  he  resumed  his  story,  still  with 
his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  head  on  his 
hands ;  his  absurdly  cut  hair  had  fallen  over 
his  face,  his  position  drew  the  waist  of  his  coat 
half  way  up  his  back ;  on  the  whole,  he  was  not 
a  tragical  figure  ;  yet  Berkely,  who  was  suffi- 
ciently susceptible  to  the  ridiculous,  felt  no  in- 
clination to  sraile.  "  We  were  married,"  said 
Witte;  "at  first  we  were  happy.  We  had  a 
small  salary,  never  punctually  paid,  and  Emily's 
health  was  poor,  but  we  loved  each  other  and 
our  two  children  and  we  kept  up  good  hearts. 
I  am  telling  you  the  truth  as  nearly  as  I  can 
see  it,  therefore  I  will  say  that  I  believe  I  was 
what  is  called  a  successful  preacher,  but  as  a 
pastor  I  failed.  I  was  always  fatally  embar- 
rassed with  the  most  of  my  congregation.  They 
called  me  stiff  and  pedantic  and  awkward.  It 's 
likely  enough  that  I  was.     A  man  is  apt  to  be 


218  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

stiif  and  pedantic  who  is  constantly  supervising 
his  own  speech  and  actions.  Somehow,  too,  I 
never  got  near  my  people,  I  sympathized  with 
them  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  but  I  was  n't 
fortunate  in  expressing  my  sympathy,  and  natu- 
rally enough  they  did  n't  give  me  credit  for  what 
they  did  n't  see.  I  tried,  by  hard  study,  to  bal- 
ance my  deficiencies  in  pastoral  work  with  fine 
sermons  ;  kept  abreast  of  the  popular  thought, 
as  the  phrase  is,  preached  on  scientific  skepti- 
cism, and  refuted  Robert  Ingersoll.  My  con- 
gregation called  me  a  rising  man,  the  papers 
published  abstracts  of  my  sermons,  making  me 
say  all  kinds  of  things  I  never  dreamed  of,  and 
the  young  men  used  to  bring  the  young  women 
to  hear  me  in  the  evening.  But  in  spite  of  the 
crowded  pews  and  the  papers  and  the  flatter- 
ing things  the  women  said  to  Emily,  I  began 
to  feel  that  I  was  preaching  to  others  who  was 
myself  a  castaway. 

"  It  was  the  doctrine  of  evolution  staggered 
me  first.  The  more  I  tried  to  investigate  the 
physical  basis  of  life  the  deeper  I  found  mj^self 
in  the  mire,  and  the  more  impossible  it  seemed 
to  accept  the  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures,  and 
the  proved  conclusions  (to  say  nothing  of  the 
frohahle  conclusions)  of  modern  science.  At 
the  same  time  I  was  plunged  in  other  difficulties. 
From  the  first  I  had  visited  the  poor  regularly 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  LAKE  PEPIN.      219 

(I  was  one  of  them,  you  know),  I  had  worked 
up  an  industrial  school  and  established  a  read- 
ing-room, and  my  church  donated  to  it  all  the 
worn-out  books  in  the  Sunday-school  library, 
and  a  number  of  quite  new  "  Lives  of  the  Meth- 
odist Bishops,"  which  we  somehow  couldn't  get 
the  children  to  read.  I  got  on  better  with  the 
poor  than  with  the  respectable  people.  Yet 
they  were  stumbling  blocks.  They  gave  me 
an  awful  sense  of  the  burden  of  life.  There 
was  n't  anything  sentimental  or  poetic  about 
their  suffering  or  their  temptations,  and  the 
worst  of  their  poverty  in  many  cases  seemed  to 
be  its  apparent  necessity.  How  are  men  and 
women  ignorant,  squalid,  unthrifty,  and  reckless 
to  be  anything  hut  poor  ?  And  yet  when  from 
the  minute  they  open  their  eyes  they  see  noth- 
ing about  them  but  ignorance  and  dirt,  how  can 
they  be  anything  else  ?  I  tell  you,  sir,  my 
visits  among  the  poor  gave  me  new  light  on  the 
survival  of  the  fittest.  And  the  poverty  out 
West  ain't  a  circumstance  to  that  of  the  great 
cities  East.  Yes,  sir,  the  more  I  saw  of  the 
world  and  the  more  in  my  office  I  explored  the 
windings  of  the  human  heart  the  more  I  saw 
how  we  are  only  a  very  little  ourselves  !  Our 
ancestors  hold  us,  sir  ;  our  environment  and 
our  education  build  bars  around  us  that  we  can't 
break  through.     There  's  awful  little  margin 


220  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

for  a  man's  individual  will  when  you  consider 
all  these  things  !  I  looked  about  me  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  everywhere  the  evil  was 
strangling  the  good.  At  first  I  believed  more 
implicitly  than  ever  in  the  devil,  then  step  by 
step,  inch  by  inch,  with  an  agony  you  can't 
conceive,  I  began  to  disbelieve  in  God.  It  was 
at  this  stage  of  my  moral  development,  when 
my  little  boy  was  six  and  my  little  girl  three, 
that  the  conference  sent  me  to  a  town  on  the 
Mississippi,  and  there  I  met  Mitchel.  You 
have  seen  him ;  he  came  on  your  boat.  Very 
likely  you  did  not  notice  him  though,  or  if  you 
did,  did  not  think  much  about  him,  for  he  does 
not  prepossess  strangers,  but  he  is  the  best  man 
I  ever  knew,  the  truest  and  the  noblest !  He 
had  the  Sixth  Street  Methodist  church,  for 
there  are  two  Methodist  churches  in  the  place  ; 
it 's  a  large  place,  though  half  the  population 
are  Germans  who  don't  go  to  church  at  all. 
You  would  have  thought,  being  in  the  same 
city,  he  would  have  felt  a  little  bit  like  a  rival 
of  mine,  but  instead  he  seemed  to  rejoice  in  my 
success.  '  You  have  great  gifts,  brother,'  said 
he, '  great  gifts  ;  may  the  Lord  prosper  them  to 
the  saving  of  souls ! '  I  liked  him  from  the 
first,  —  he  had  a  simple,  confiding  faith  about 
him  that  attracted  me.  He  was  a  widower 
with  five  children ;  poor,  of  course,  but  living 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    221 

SO  plainly  that  he  always  had  something  to  give 
and    was    able    to   exercise   hospitality.     '  We 
never  make   any  change,'  said  he,  '  and  there  's 
always  plenty  though  it 's  plain,  so  I  'm  always 
glad  to  see  my  friends.'     Why,  sir,  he  brought 
the  bishop  up  to  his  Saturday  dinner,  just  baked 
beans    and    brown    bread    and   a    watermelon. 
'  The  bishop  is  a  New  England  man,  too,  Maria,' 
he  says  to  his  sister,  '  and  I  've  told  him  you 
are  the  best  hand  at  baked  beans  I  know.'    And 
he  sat  down  with  his  eyes  twinkling  over  those 
baked  beans  as  if  they  had  been  a  grand  dinner. 
He  enjoys  everything,  Mitchel  does  ;  and  every 
one  else's  pleasure  seems  like  his  own.     And 
so  it  is  with  their  sorrow.     I  had  n't  been  with 
him  six  months  before   I  told  him  something 
of  the  doubts  that  were  eating  my  heart  out. 
'  You  haven't  read  Joseph  Cook,'  says  he,  'he's 
the  man  for  such  men  as  you  !     He  's  too  deep 
for  me,  but  then  God  has  been   merciful  to  me 
and  kept   my  faith  clear,  so  it  don't  matter. 
You  read  him,  brother,  he  is  a  wonderful  logi- 
cian.'    So  I  read  the  lectures.     Have  you  ever 
read  them,  sir  ?  " 

"  Mrs.  Berkely  has,"  answered  Berkely ; 
"one  volume  on  transcendentalism  and  that 
sort  of  thing  was  all  /was  able  to  bear." 

"  Then  you  know  there  is  a  kind  of  ponderous 
fascination  about  the  man;  he  marshals  such 


222  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

an  enormous  array  of  authorities  that  at  first 
you  don't  dare  to  examine  anything,  and  his 
syllogisms  look  so  imposing  you  don't  think  of 
asking  just  what  the  terms  mean.  I  was  car- 
ried away  by  him  —  why,  my  poor  Emily  and 
I  used  to  pray  every  night  that  God  would 
bless  that  man  for  the  spiritual  help  he  Lad 
been  to  me.  But  it  is  the  curse  of  such  tem- 
peraments as  mine  that  they  can't  stop  ques- 
tioning while  there 's  anything  left.  I  began 
to  ask  what  Cook  meant  in  his  various  steps  of 
the  argument  instead  of  simply  accepting  his 
conclusions." 

"  You  must  have  had  a  jolly  time  finding 
out,"  said  Berkely. 

The  hermit  looked  at  him  gravely.  "  I  can't 
say  that  I  rightly  did  find  out,  sir.  But  I  be- 
came convinced  there  were  some  discrepancies 
in  his  statements.  I  thought  I  would  go  di- 
rectly to  the  German  philosophers  he  talked  of. 
It  was  n't  so  easy  to  get  their  works,  but  I  'd 
always  kept  up  my  German,  and  an  old  Ger- 
man lent  me  a  stray  volume  of  Kant,  Hegel's 
Phenomenology  and  something  of  Schopen- 
hauer, his  essay  on  the  Will.  Then  Mitchel 
got  me  some  odd  numbers  of  a  St.  Louis  maga- 
zine that  deals  with  German  philosophy  mostly, 
and  then  I  found  more  Hegel  and  some  Fichte 
and  Schelling.     And  I  confess,  sir,  I  got  con- 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    223 

siderably  tangled  up  among  them  all  and  went 
to  Schopenhauer  with  my  mind  in  a  muddle. 
You  have  read  him,  sir  ?  " 

"  Bits  about  the  Will,  merely,"  said  Berkely  ; 
"  my  wife  amused  herself,  one  summer,  teach- 
ing me  German  philosophy.    She  has  read  him." 

"  The  Will  is  the  central  doctrine.  You  can 
understand,  then,  how  he  struck  me.  He  dared 
to  express  all  my  half-confessed,  unworked-out 
thoughts.  Here  was  a  world  that  was  one  uni- 
versal battle  -  field,  every  species  preying  on 
some  other  ;  war,  carnage,  agony  everywhere, 
everywhere  an  appalling  waste ;  Nature  stingy 
only  of  the  means  of  sustaining  life,  prodigal 
alike  of  the  powers  of  increase  and  destruction  ; 
always  utterly  indifferent  to  suffering !  Then 
in  man  himself,  the  grand  result,  what  do  we 
see  ?  The  beast  survivinor  and  clutchino^  his 
will,  dragging  him  into  sin  he  loathes ;  a  crea- 
ture with  just  enough  appreciation  of  spiritual 
beauty  to  feel  remorse  for  sins  he  has  n't  the 
strength  to  resist !  And  this  being  the  uni- 
verse, I  was  to  imagine  the  God  of  the  universe 
more  merciful  than  his  own  laws  !  My  reason 
recoiled,  sir.  But  Schopenhauer  makes  all  this 
paradox  plain." 

'*  How?  "  said  Berkely. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can't  make  myself  as  clear  as 
I  'd  like,  but  this,  in  brief,  is  what  I  understand 


224  KNITTERS  IN   THE  SUN. 

Schopenhauer's  theory  to  be.  And  I  ought  to 
say,  in  the  first  place,  that  he  goes  to  work  in- 
ductively ;  he  flings  aside  the  dialectic  of  the 
idealists  and  finds  his  facts  first,  then  fits  his 
theory  to  them.  He  goes  with  Kant  so  far  as 
this,  that  he  believes  all  this  visible  world  to 
be,  as  far  as  we  can  know,  simply  '  a  phenome- 
non of  our  own  consciousness.'  But  something 
must  produce  this  '  phenomenon,'  therefore  the 
world  is  '  not  a  mere  shadow  world,'  but  a  real- 
ity, just  as  we  are  a  reality  and  the  force  behind 
the  world  is  the  force  behind  us.  That  univer- 
sal primary  force  is  the  will.  The  essential 
principle  of  man  is  not  a  soul  (that  is,  a  unit 
in  which  will  and  consciousness  are  indissolubly 
combined),  but  what  Schopenhauer  calls  the 
'  radical  of  the  soul,'  the  will ;  for,  the  con- 
sciousness is,  as  science  teaches  us,  only  the  re- 
sult of  a  nervous  system,  while  the  will  exists 
independently,  it  is  found  where  there  is  no 
nervous  system,  consequently  no  consciousness; 
therefore  the  will  is  the  primary  force  in  man. 
It  is  likewise  the  primary  force  in  nature ;  it 
has  made  all  the  visible  forms  of  life,  or  rather 
they  are  its  representation,  just  as  our  bodily 
actions  are  the  representation  of  our  will.  The 
will  is  the  thing  in  itself  which  has  made  all 
things.  But  the  will  wdthout  consciousness  is 
a  blind  force,  it  is  simply  the  will  to  he,  an  in- 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    225 

finite  hunger  for  existence.     This  it  is  which 
has  turned  the  polyp  into  beast  and  the  beast 
into  man.     Now  you  can  see,  sir,  that  this  will 
being  the  will  to  exist  at  all  costs,  each  creature 
struggles  for  his  own   preservation   careless  of 
every  other,  or  only  careful  as  far  as  they  have 
found  out  that  hurting  others   will  eventually 
hurt   themselves.     'Nature,   regardless   of   the 
individual,   studies   only  to  preserve  the  race.' 
Hence  the  endless  conflict  we  see.     There  is  no 
such  thing  as  freedom  of  the  will,  as  it  is  gen- 
erally understood,  because  each  man's  tempera- 
ment, that  is  his  destiny,  is  determined  for  him 
before  he  is  born.     The  universal  will  deter- 
mines that  for  each  individual,  yet  he  as  part 
of  the  universal  will  may  be  said  to  make  his 
own  fate.     There  is  no  such  thing,  either,  as 
personal  immortality.     The  individual  depends 
for  his   consciousness   on    his  nervous   system, 
and  when  that  decays  he  vanishes ;  his  will  is 
absorbed  into  the  will  of  the  whole.     This  blind 
will  of  the  whole  is  the  only  God,  and  he,  as 
Von  Hartmann  truly  says,  is  to  be  pitied  rather 
than  reverenced.     And  as  there  is  no  God,  so 
there  are  no  absolute,  innate  ideas  of  right  and 
wrong.     Morality  is  simply  a  safeguard  of  ex- 
istence, a  deduction  of  experience,  men  having 
learned  that  some  pleasures  cost  more  than  they 
are  worth,  and  that  hurting  others  in  the  end 


226  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

hurts  themselves.  Happiness  is  an  illusion 
like  the  rest,  for  what  is  it  but  the  cessation  of 
the  pain  of  desire  ?  and  the  will  itself  is  an  in- 
satiable desire,  and  the  instant  we  cease  to  de- 
sire we  cease  to  exist.  Love  is  as  much  of  an 
illusion  as  happiness  ;  there  is  no  future  aud  no 
hope  save  in  ceasing  to  will,  which  is  annihila- 
tion. '  This  is  the  worst  possible  world,  and  we 
are  the  worst  possible  beings  ! '  " 

"  Cheerful,  all  that,"  said  Berkely,  "  but  go 
on!" 

"  Of  course  that  is  n't  the  whole  of  it.  There 
are  some  beautiful  things  said  about  art  and  ab- 
stract conceptions  and  a  man  of  genius  lifting 
himself  transiently  out  of  the  struggle  and  for- 
getting himself  in  the  beautiful ;  but  the  sum- 
ming up  of  it  all  is  that  life  is  an  inevitable 
failure,  art  itself  is  an  illusion,  and  '  history  re- 
lates,' says  Schopenhauer,  'only  the  long,  heavy, 
confused  dream  of  humanity.'  Now,  sir,  I  can't 
give  you  any  idea  of  the  fascinating  way  in  which 
Schopenhauer  states  this  theory,  I  can  only  say 
that  he  seems  to  me  to  explain  by  it  all  the 
varied  phenomena  of  existence.  Can  you  see 
how  such  a  philosophy  captured  me  against  my 
will  ?  I  did  n't  want  to  believe  it ;  but  a  thing 
is  true  or  not  true,  and  the  truth  of  Schopen- 
hauer's doctrines  did  n't  depend  on  my  finding 
them  unpleasant  or  the  reverse.    Against  every 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    227 

wish  and  every  worldly  prospect  I  had  to  believe 
Lim,  sir !  " 

"  But  your  wife,"  said  Ethel. 

"  My  wife  was  an  angel,  if  such  things  could 
be,"  answered  the  hermit  with  a  softer  inflec- 
tion in  his  tone.  "  She  prayed  for  me  continu- 
ally, but  when  she  saw  how  it  was  with  me  she 
said,  '  Herman,  you  must  give  up  the  ministry  ; 
the  blind  cannot  lead  the  blind ! '  So  then  I 
went  to  Wesley  and  told  him  the  whole  story. 
He  was  dreadfully  shocked,  but  he  stuck  to 
me  like  a  brother  —  enough  better  than  any 
brother  /ever  had  !  '  Yes,  you  must  leave  the 
ministry,'  said  he,  '  but  don't  give  up  the  fight, 
brother;  God  won't  suffer  you  to  remain  al- 
ways in  darkness.'  Well,  I  left  the  ministry, 
resigned,  and  preached  a  farewell  sermon  giv- 
ing my  reasons.  It  made  a  great  stir  in  the 
place  for  a  while ;  I  know  now  it  broke  Emily's 
heart.  A  crowd  of  people  called  on  me.  I  was 
talked  most  to  death  in  the  two  weeks  follow- 
ing. Some  of  them  congratulated  me  on  my 
'manl3^,  straightforward  course,'  as  they  called 
it ;  and  the  Unitarian  minister  shook  hands 
with  me  on  the  street  and  told  me  'truth  had 
set  me  free.'  '  What  is  truth  ?  '  says  I ;  '  have 
you  found  it  ?  I  only  know  that  everything 
I  've  given  my  life  to  is  a  lie.  I  'm  a  miserable 
man  !     How  shall  I  support  my  family  ? '     He 


228  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

said  there  were  other  openings  for  an  honest 
man.  Well,  I  did  n't  find  them.  You  see  I 
belonged  to  nobody.  If  I  'd  turned  Unitarian 
or  Catholic  they  would  have  looked  after  me  a 
little,  but  there  I  was,  a  credit  to  no  denomina- 
tion's logic,  clean  outside  of  everything  !  Well, 
I  '11  not  make  a  long  story  of  it.  At  first  every- 
body said  Emily  was  n't  to  blame,  and  the 
ladies  showed  their  Christian  charity  by  asking 
her  to  lunch  parties,  which  were  convenient 
because  then  they  need  n't  ask  me. 

"  But  Emily  was  shy  and  would  n't  go, 
though  I  've  often  urged  her  just  so  she  might 
get  a  hearty  meal;  for  it  had  come  to  that 
with  us,  ma'am.  My  congregation  had  run  be- 
hind with  my  salary,  and  they  said  the  scandal 
of  my  leaving  so  broke  up  the  church  that  they 
couldn't  pay  me.  Butchers  and  grocers  de- 
clined to  lose  more  money  by  us.  Wesley  got 
me  a  little  work  on  a  paper,  and  I  went  about 
the  small  towns  where  I  could,  lecturing  for 
ten  dollars  and  my  traveling  expenses.  But 
with  it  all  we  were  often  hungry,  and  should 
have  been  oftener  if  Wesley  hadn't  been  al- 
ways sending  things  and  getting  us  over  there 
under  one  pretext  or  another  for  a  better  din- 
ner than  he  'd  give  himself.  But  I  said  I 
wouldn't  make  a  long  story  of  it.  My  little 
Herman  wore  out  his  shoes,  I  'd  no  money  for 


SCHOPENHAUER    ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    229 

more ;  it  was  wet  weather,  and  he  took  cold. 
It  turned  into  diphtheria  ;  he  died  one  week, 
and  his  mother  the  next  of  the  same  disease. 
Mitchel's  sister  came  over  and  took  care  of  her ; 
we  were  so  miserably  poor  then  I  caught  her 
bringing  flour  over  in  a  bucket.  When  Emily- 
was  taken  first,  a  little  town  near  wanted  me 
for  a  lecture ;  she  told  me  to  go.  I  had  n't  a 
dollar  in  the  world,  sir,  had  to  borrow  my  fare 
of  Wesley,  so  —  I  went.  When  I  came  back 
she  was  dead." 

He  dropped    his  head  on  his   folded  arms. 
Neither  of  the  listeners  found  anything  to  say. 

Witte  rose  and  walked  to  the  easel.  He  flung 
one  arm  about  the  picture  frame,  and  some- 
times while  he  was  speaking  his  fingers  would 
gently  stroke  the  glass.  *' Mitchel  had  this 
done  from  a  photograph,"  he  said.  "Mitchel 
got  me  this  place,  too ;  he  'd  been  trying  for 
it  some  time.  Getting  it  a  little  earlier  would 
have  made  a  difference.  My  wife's  relations 
took  my  little  girl ;  they  offered  to  adopt 
her  if  I  'd  give  her  up  entirely.  My  unfortu- 
nate rehgious  views  made  the  condition  neces- 
sary, they  said.  It  was  the  best  thing  for  the 
child,  so  I  gave  her  up.  Once  I  went  to  see 
her.  I  saved  up  money  enough  to  get  to  New 
York  state  where  they  lived.  I  bought  some 
little  things  I  thought  would  please  her  and 


230  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

went  straight  to  her  aunt's  house  ;  I  said  to 
myself  all  the  way  that  they  surely  would  n't 
have  the  cruelty  to  hinder  me  from  kissing  her 
and  talking  to  her  a  little  while." 

"  Well,  had  they  ?  "  said  Berkely. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  not ;  they  'd  no  need,  for  they 
were  n't  there  ;  they  'd  gone  to  Europe  to  stay 
four  years.  I  came  back  here.  Some  time  I 
think  I  '11  end  it  all  with  a  pistol  bullet,  but 
where  's  the  use  ?  The  will  is  indestructible, 
in  another  form  I  should  still  live  and  suffer. 
They  are  gone,"  he  said  with  his  hand  on  the 
picture  frame  ;  "  I  can  never  find  them,  and  for 
what  else  should  I  go  ?  There  is  but  one  way 
to  peace,  to  cease  to  desire,  and  then  I  shall 
cease  to  exist." 

He  resumed  his  seat  by  the  table,  and  lean- 
ing his  head  on  his  hand  turned  toward  Ethel 
his  hopeless,  misty  blue  eyes.  A  sudden  im- 
pulse made  her  stretch  out  her  hand,  saying, 
"  I  am  so  sorry  for  you  !  "  He  took  the  hand 
awkwardly,  and  at  the  same  moment,  unper- 
ceived  by  any  of  them,  the  man  whom  he  had 
called  Mitchel  came  across  the  grass  plot  before 
the  house  and  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Witte,  ''  but  tell  me,  can 
I  do  better?  You,  sir,  too,  can  I  do  better? 
What  better  is  there  to  do  ?  " 

"I  think  you  can  do  better,"  said  Berkely. 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    231 

"  Don't  you   see  one  thing  ?     Granting  this  is 
a  bad  world,  still,  toe  have  improved  !     Nature 
has  somehow  made  a  man,  and  he  is  better  than 
an  ape.     And  don't   you  see  if  there  is  any 
progress  there  is  hope,  and  a  world  with  hope 
in  it  can't  be  the  worst  possible  world,  for  a 
world  without  hope  would  be  worse  still !    And 
if  there  is  such   a  thing  as  progress,  doesn't 
every  man  help  himself  in  helping  the  rest  ? 
I  'm  taking  your  own  premises,   only  talking 
Von   Hartmann   instead   of  his   master.      One 
thing  is   sure,  Mr.   Witte,   the  only  pleasures 
which  don't   leave    a   sting    behind   them   are 
those  which  come  from  obeying  what  is  conven- 
tionally called  our  higher  nature ;  and  no  man 
has  ever  listened  to  that  unexplainable  some- 
thing in  him  which   decides  for  righteousness 
and  been  sorry,  no  matter  what  the  decision 
has  cost  him  !     I  take  it  there  's  something  sig- 
nificant in  that  fact.     Mr.  Witte,  you  and  I 
are  only  two  out  of   a  multitude,   and  every 
other  one's  happiness  is  as  dear  to  him  as  ours 
to  us ;  now,  it  is  another  significant  fact  that 
the  men  who  have,  as  you  may  say,  flung  their 
own  happiness  into  the  pool  with  the  other  fel- 
lows have  been  happier  than  those  who  have 
—  well,  played  a  lone  hand,  caring  for  no  one 
else."    ("  I  'm  getting  my  morals  awfully  mixed 
with  betting  and  euchre,"  thought  Berkely ;  "I 


232  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

shall  have  to  cut  it  short.")  "  Say  you  were 
to  try  the  first  of  these  plans,  and  since  your 
own  happiness  is  ruined  give  the  best  that 's  in 
you  to  the  poor  beggars  almost  as  badly  off  as 
yourself;  don't  you  think  your  will  would  then 
stand  a  better  chance  than  it  does  here,  alone 
with  yourself  and  your  bitter  memories,  to  get 
into  harmony  with  the  universal  Will  ?  That 's 
the  view  I  take  of  it  as  a  pagan." 

"  And  what  do  you  say  ? "  said  the  hermit, 
turning  abruptly  to  Ethel.  Her  husband  looked 
at  her  also.  She  blushed  a  little,  and  being 
exceedingly  shy  her  voice  was  not  quite  steady 
when  she  began  to  speak. 

"  I  don't  look  at  it  as  a  pagan,"  she  said, 
"  for  I  am  a  Christian  "  (the  man  in  the  door- 
way took  off  his  hat);  "and  I  am  a  Christian 
for  the  same  reason  that  you  are  a  pessimist  — 
because  Christianity  alone  seems  to  me  to  offer 
a  reasonable  explanation  of  the  contradictions 
and  miseries  of  life.  With  another  world  this 
world  seems  reasonable,  without  one  it  is  just 
a  grim  and  cruel  joke ;  and  Schopenhauer  sees 
that  himself,  for  he  tries  to  escape  his  own  con- 
clusions with  the  theories  of  art  and  his  Bud- 
dhist ideas  of  absorption  into  the  universal. 
Schopenhauer  contradicts  and  dogmatizes  worse 
than  the  Bible  his  followers  despise,  yet  he 
cannot  deny  that  there  may  be  a  will  which  is 


o 


SCHOPENHAUER  ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    233 

in  and  for  itself  and  conscious  of  itself  —  that 
is  God;  be  only  can  see  no  sign  of  any  such 
will  in  the  universe.  Between  his  dogmatism 
and  that  of  the  Bible  it  seems  to  me  easy 
choosing,  especially  when  you  look  at  their 
practical  results.  I  am  quite  willing  to  accept 
any  proved  conclusion  of  modern  science,  the 
origin  of  the  species  if  you  will,  but  what  dif- 
ference does  it  make  hotv  God  has  worked  ? 
You  only  remove  the  difficulty  a  step  farther 
back;  you  don't  solve  it.  Who  created  tbis 
matter  which  contains  'the  promise  and  po- 
tency of  life  '  ?  All  that  has  been  said  of  the 
only  true  happiness  I  firmly  believe,  only  — 
has  n't  it  been  as  well  said  in  the  Sermon  on 
the  Mount  as  by  the  modern  Altruists  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  it  has,"  said  Mitchel,  advan- 
cing. 

"This  is  my  friend  I  told  you  of,"  said  Witte. 

Berkely  bowed  in  silence,  but  Ethel  held 
out  her  hand.  Probably  Mitchel  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  any  especial  grace  in  the  ac- 
tion; it  is  customary  in  the  West  to  shake 
hands  on  an  introduction.  He  shook  hands 
with  great  cordiality,  saying  something  Ethel 
could  not  hear,  for  just  then  the  boat  whistle 
blew. 

"  We  must  go,"  said  Berkely  hastily  ;  "  but 
think  the  whole  thing  over,  and  if  you  want 


234  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

help  to  get  away  from  here,  this  is  my  card. 
I  should  be  glad  —  you  understand.  Good-by." 
He  turned  to  Mitchel  and  said  a  few  words  in 
a  low  tone,  while  Ethel  said  to  Witte,  "  You 
will  think  it  over  again,  won't  you  ?  "  He  did 
not  answer,  unless  it  was  an  answer  to  silently 
pick  a  pansy  from  the  little  bed  of  flowers  near 
the  door  and  give  it  to  her.  The  boat  whistle 
blew  again  and  the  bell  began  to  ring. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  going,"  called  Mitchel. 
"  Good-by." 

Berkely  and  his  wife  ran  down  the  shore  to 
the  boat.  "  What  did  you  say  to  Mr.  Mitchel, 
John  ?  "  said  Ethel  as  they  gained  the  deck. 

"  Told  him  he  was  the  best  sermon  for  the 
Methodist  Church  I  knew,  and  he  said  he  only 
'  done  what  any  Christian  man  would  do  for 
another  ; '  then  I  gave  him  something  for  any 
charitable  object  he  might  have  on  hand,  told 
him  he  was  as  good  a  Christian  as  Marcus 
Aurelius,  and  went  off.  But,  Ethel,  that  fellow 
has  taught  me  a  lesson  ;  I  am  afraid  it  is  I  who 
am  the  bigoted  prig,  not  he."  Ethel  gave  him 
a  look  which  made  the  woman  whose  cousin 
died  in  Kansas  whisper  to  Mrs.  Wattles:  "Just 
married,  poor  things  ;  they  won't  look  that 
way  at  each  other  long !  " 

"  And  I  think,"  said  Berkely,  with  a  little 
screw  of  his  lips  as  though  he  brought  the  words 


SCHOPENHAUER   ON  LAKE  PEPIN.    235 

out  hardly,  —  "I  think  the  other  poor  beggar 
taught  me  one  too.  My  cynicism  is  tolerably 
cheap,  Ethel ;  I  'ra  not  proud  of  it.  See,  we 
are  going." 

The  hermit  and  Mitchel  were  standing  on 
the  shore,  and  both  waved  their  hats  as  the  boat 
moved  off.  Looking  back,  they  saw  the  west- 
ern sky  aflame  and  the  western  water  opal  in 
the  light,  while  under  the  darkening  hills  the 
lonely  hut  stood  grim  and  silent,  making  no 
sign  of  life. 

They  sat  on  deck  that  night  until  the  red 
faded  from  the  sky,  the  hills  grew  into  shape- 
less black  masses,  and  they  left  Lake  Pepin  be- 
hind them.     Nor  have  they  ever  returned. 

The  hermit  did  not  write  to  Berkely,  but 
Ethel  thinks  that  she  once  had  news  of  him. 
It  was  in  the  September  of  that  same  year  when 
every  newspaper  was  a  death  list  because  of 
the  pestilence  which  wasted  the  South.  Among 
the  names  of  the  dead  at  some  obscure  town  in 
Mississippi  —  so  blotted  in  the  type  that  she 
could  not  read  it  rightly  —  was  the  name, 
"  Herman  Witte,  volunteer  nurse,"  and  beneath 
the  brief  comment,  "Mr.  Witte  is  the  nurse 
who  was  taken  sick  the  day  after  his  arrival." 

She  handed  the  paper  to  Berkely.  He  lifted 
his  eyebrows,  and  being  alone  with  his  wife 
gave  a  low  whistle. 


236  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN, 

"  I  believe  it 's  that  Schopenhauer  fellow, 
Ethel,"  he  said.  "  By  Jove,  if  the  unlucky- 
beggar  did  n't  manage  to  make  a  failure  of  his 
death  as  well  as  his  life  ! " 


o 


"MA'   BOWLIN'." 

When  the  spring  overflow  comes,  the  plan- 
tation of  Clover  Bend  becomes  a  rustic  Venice. 
Boats  glide  over  the  cypress  knees  in  the 
swamps,  where  the  cypresses  and  sycamores 
look  oddly  short,  and  the  thorn  trees  dip  their 
red  spikes  in  the  water.  Usually  the  store 
stands  on  a  high  bank,  but  then  looking  over 
the  edge  you  can  see  the  green  waves  curdling 
about  the  willow  roots  barely  a  step  below. 

Bud  Quinn's  house  faces  the  plantation,  the 
store,  the  mill,  and  the  score  of  houses  ;  but  its 
western  windows  are  toward  the  river  and  the 
sunset  and  the  undulating  line  of  cane  which 
limits  the  hill  country  from  whence  the  Quinns 
came.  It  is  a  house  of  the  common  Arkansas 
type  —  two  ill-built  chimneys  on  the  outside, 
a  beetling  roof,  and  an  open  "  gallery  "  in  the 
middle. 

One  morning,  during  a  certain  overflow  sea- 
son a  good  many  years  ago,  Mrs.  Quinn  sat  in 
the  gallery  with  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Brand,  and 
the  Quinns'  only  child,  Ma'  Bowlin'.  The 
women  of  the  "  bottom-lands "  are  inclined  to 


238  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

be  thin  and  sallow,  while  Mrs.  Quinn's  comely 
plumpness  of  person  was  accompanied  by  a 
particularly  fair  skin  with  roses  and  freckles. 
There  were  dimples  in  her  cheeks  deep  enough 
to  show  when  she  was  not  smiling,  and  in  spite 
of  hard  and  sad  years  her  blue  eyes  sparkled 
with  a  placid,  kindly,  half-humorous  brightness. 
She  had  been  sewing  on  a  child's  frock  of  flow- 
ered cotton,  which  she  shook  out,  finally,  say- 
ing :  "  Thar,  now.  Ma'  Bowlin'  ;  thar  's  yo' 
new  gownd.  Mus'  be  keerful ;  not  mud  it ;  not 
muss  it — mus'  be  keerful." 

The  child  listened  with  a  strained  attention, 
though  the  words  were  so  simple.  She  was  a 
fair,  pretty  child,  with  curling  flaxen  hair  and 
dark  blue  eyes,  in  shape  and  color  the  copy  of 
her  mother's,  but  quite  lacking  their  expression, 
having  in  its  place  a  look  at  once  wistful  and 
dazed. 

Mrs.  Quinn  repeated  the  words  until  the  ear- 
nest little  face  brightened,  and  the  curly  head 
was  nodded  vehemently.  "  Ma'  Bowlin'  knaw. 
Ma'  Bowlin'  keerful.    Putt  on ! "  cried  the  child. 

"  Stan'  still,  then." 

Ma'  Bowlin'  assumed  a  rigid  military  atti- 
tude, like  a  soldier  at  drill,  while  her  mother 
slipped  the  frock  over  her  shoulders. 

"Do  look  at  the  little  trick!"  said  Mrs. 
Brand. 


''MA'  BOWLIN':'  239 

"  I  I'arned  'er  thet  ar,"  said  Mrs.  Quinn. 
"  She  '11  Stan'  twell  I  tell  'er  ter  quit,  ef  she 
Stan's  all  day.  She  are  the  best  chile  ter  mind. 
W'y,  I  tole  'er  onst  ter  be  shore  keep  up  the 
fire  w'ile  I  wuz  ter  the  mill,  an'  ef  ye  please 
she  piled  on  cotton  seed  twell  she  nigh  sot 
the  heouse  afire  —  she  did  so ;  the  mantil  war 
a-scorchin'." 

"Wa'al,  a  good,  mindin'  chile's  a  comfort, 
even  ef  they  don't  jes  make  the  wiggle,"  said 
Mrs.  Brand. 

Mrs.  Brand  was  a  widow  from  Georgia,  a 
tall,  spare,  black-haired,  bright-eyed  woman,  in 
a  very  clean  and  stiff  print  gown ;  much  re- 
spected by  her  neighbors  because  she  openly 
despised  the  State  of  Arkansas,  and  her  husband 
had  owned  slaves  before  the  war.  To  be  sure, 
the  slaves  were  only  a  decrepit  old  pair  thrown 
in  as  "  boot  "  to  a  horse  trade  ;  but  Mrs.  Brand 
always  spoke  of  them  in  a  large  plural  as  "  We 
all's  niggers,"  and  felt  about  their  vanished 
ownership  much  as  a  ruined  noble  might  feel 
about  his  patent  of  nobilit}^. 

"  Law  me  !  "  she  continued,  with  a  sigh,  feel- 
ing for  her  snuff-stick,  "  ain't  the  ways  er  Prov- 
idence onscrutable  ?  But  I  reckon  ye  set  jes 
much  store  on  'er,  ef  not  a  little  mucher." 

Mrs.  Quinn's  arms,  which  were  about  the 
child,  tightened  into  an  almost  savage  clasp. 


240  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

She  crushed  the  fair  curls  against  her  cheek  ; 
but  directly  she  laughed.  "  I  reckon,"  said 
she.  "  Thar  now,  honey,  ye  look  right  peart. 
Ye  kin  —  yes,  ye  kin  run  long  ter  the  store  an' 
strike  up  with  yo'  paw  an'  show  him  yo'  new 
dress.  Be  shore  ye  don'  mud  it,  an'  ye  show  it 
ter  him.     Yere  's  yo'  bunnit." 

Both  women  looked  after  the  pretty  little 
shape  as  it  skipped  along  the  narrow  ridge  of 
land  leading  to  the  plantation  store.  The 
widow  compressed  her  lips  over  some  unuttered 
thought. 

Mrs.  Quinn  answered  it :  "  Bud  '11  fotch  'er 
'ome  on  his  boss.  He  don'  much  'er  like  some  ; 
but  he  means  kin'.  He  never  guvs  'er  a  ha'sh 
word  —  never." 

"  Some  folks  say  he  never  gives  her  any  word 
't  all,"  said  the  widow,  dryly.  "  But  law !  some 
folks  wud  bust  if  they  cud  n't  talk ;  it  swells  in 
'em  so,  like  pop-corn.  Say,  how  ole  is  Ma' 
Bowlin' ;  risin'  er  eight  ?  " 

"  Eight  this  day.  Ye  had  orter  remember 
the  day." 

"  So  I  had,"  rejoined  Mrs.  Brand,  with  some 
emotion.  "  Law  me  !  yo'  man  nigh  busted  my 
do'  down  ;  an'  I  was  so  phased  I  said  right  out : 
'  Bud  Quinn,  ain't  ye  ben  lynched  yet  ?  '  '  Yes, 
I  have,'  says  he,  'n'  Sukey  begged  me  off.  An' 
now  she's  took  bad,  an'  for  the  Lord's  sake 


<'MA'  BOWLIN\"  241 

come  an'  hope  'er ! '  Wa'al,  I  had  n't  much 
acquaintanceship  with  you  all,  but  I  knowed 
what  the  matter  was,  an'  I  cud  n't  refuse.  So, 
if  ye  please,  off  we  went  —  on  that  same  wil' 
colt  you  taken.  An'  the  way  that  there  critter 
went  r'arin'  an'  chargin'  through  the  water  — 
ye  'member  how  high  the  overflow  was  that 
year  —  my  word  !  I  says,  '  Mr.  Quinn,'  says  I, 
'  if  I  kin  have  my  ruthers,  I  'd  ruther  walk.' 
'  Sukey  done  rode  'im,'  says  he ;  'he  won'  make 
no  blunders.'  '  Then  I  ain't  s'prised  she 's 
took,'  says  I.  Say,  Sukey,  war  n't  ye  skeered  ? 
Night  'n'  all." 

"I  don'  'member  like  I  war,"  said  Sukey, 
rising  and  beginning  to  lay  the  table  in  the 
kitchen  ;  "  onyhow  he  war  all  the  hoss  left,  so 
I  had  ter  tek  'im." 

The  widow  gave  a  moment  to  remembrance 
and  her  snuff-stick  before  saying,  "  Sorter  quar 
they  all  never  fund  nuthin  er  Zed  Ruffner  'cept 
that  ole  hat  er  his'n  all  bloodied  an'  tromped 
on." 

"  Bud  'lowed  't  warn't  Zed's  hat  't  all,"  said 
Sukey,  quickly  ;  "  jes  er  old  un  the  hoegs  fit 
over  an'  tromped  up.  Ye  knaw  how  them  wil' 
hoegs  fight.  Zed  Ruffner  tole  Bud  he  war 
gwine  ter  light  a  shuck,  kase  he  cud  n't  put  up 
no  longer  with  his  maw's  cavin'.  He  'lowed 
ter  go  on  the  trade  boat." 


242  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Yes,  I  'member,"  said  the  widow,  ''  an'  I 
don'  know  w'y  Bud's  story  war  n't  likely  as 
t'  other,  an'  Zed  done  make  tracks  with  the  hun- 
erd  an'  twenty  dollars.  I  expect  he  'lowed 
't  was  his  own  money,  bein'  like  't  was  from 
sellin'  the  hoss  his  own  mother  left  'im;  an'  my 
son  Frank  says  Zed  taken  it  turrible  hard  for 
to  have  his  money  used  that  a-way.  But  ayfter 
they  all  fund  the  hat,  an'  knowed  how  Bud 
done,  ridin'  off  in  the  bottom  with  Zed,  an' 
comin'  back  by  his  lone,  they  was  jes  like  a 
pack  er  dogs  ayfter  a  wil'  hog  —  no  reasonin' 
in  'em,  nuthin'  cept  bark." 

"  Oh,  wa'al,"  said  Mrs.  Quinn,  mildly,  "  I 
don't  guess  't  wuz  so  quar,  ayfter  all.  We-uns 
had  n't  ben  in  Clover  Bend  mo'n  two  months  ; 
an'  bein'  frum  the  hill  country,  too,  folkses  war 
sorter  sot  agin  us,  natchelly  nuff.  An'  the  wust 
trick  er  all  war  we-uns  hevin  hed  hard  words 
with  the  Ruffners.  'T  war  all  'long  thet  ar  same 
colt  witch  Mis'  Ruffner  she  offered  ter  Bud,  an' 
Bud  he  taken  up  with  it ;  but  somebody  offered 
more,  an'  she  sole  the  colt  ter  them,  an'  w'en 
Bud  guv  'er  his  opinion,  she  war  r'arin'  an' 
chargin'  —  wa'al  I  don'  want  fur  ter  say  nuthin 
agin  onybody  cole  in  their  grave  "  — 

"  She  wuz  a  venermous  ole  liar,  cole  or  hot," 
interrupted  the  widow,  calmly  ;  "  an'  hot  nuff 
she  had  orter  be,  ef  all  tales  air  true.    Ye  knaw 


o 


''MA'    BOWLIN'."  243 

she  jes  sicked  them  men  on  Bud.  An'  I  reckon 
ye  wudn'tgot'im  off  ef  she'd  'a  ben  reoun'. 
No,  ma'am.  How  did  ye,  onyhow  ?  I  've 
wanted  ter  knaw  fur  a  right  smart,  but  I  did 
n't  like  fur  ter  quiz  ye." 

"  I  '11  tell  ye,  then,"  said  Mrs.  Quinn.  "  I  wuz 
comin'  home,  w'en  I  met  up  with  Tennessee 
Gale,  an'  she  tole  me  how  they  'd  toted  Bud  off 
ter  the  big  bayou  whar  they  fund  the  hat,  ye 
knaw,  fur  ter  lynch  him.  So  't  war  powerful 
dark,  but  I  follered  ayfter  fas'  I  cud,  an'  I  come 
up  on  'em  w'en  they  'd  got  the  rope  reoun'  Bud's 
neck.  'T  wuz  Ruffner  tole  'em  ter  lemme  talk. 
I  knawed  'im  spite  er  his  black  kaliker  mask. 
So  then  I  tole  'em  how  Bud  come  home  that  ar 
night  'thout  a  scratch  er  a  t'ar  on  'im.  I  axed 
they  all  ter  s'arch  'im  right  thar,  an'  they  done 
it,  an'  't  war  jes  like  I  tole  'em.  Then  I  put  it 
ter  they  all,  cud  a  gre't  big  feller  like  Zed  Ruff- 
ner be  killed  up  'thout  mekin'  a  fight  fur  't  ? 
'Sides,  the  place  war  all  tore  up ;  thar  war  a 
turrible  fight  thar,  shore,  hoegs  or  humans. 
An'  how  wud  they  all  feel  ef  ayfter  they  bunged 
Bud  they  'd  fin'  Zed  Ruffner  safe  an'  soun'  ?  I 
don't  'member  on  the  words,  but  I  begged  hard, 
an'  bymeby  Ruffner  he  stomps  his  foot  an'  he 
says,  sezee  :  '  Dad  burn  me  !  I  cay  n't  stan'  no 
mo',  guilty  or  not  guilty.  Mis'  Quinn,  go  'long 
'home  ;  ye  ain't  fit  ter  be  out  yere.     Boys,  le's 


244  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

let  'er  tek  'er  man  'ome  with  'er.  We  kin  fin' 
'im  easy  naff  ef  we  want  'im.'  An'  that  war 
how  it  happened.  Bud  he  'lowed  Zed  wud 
turn  up,  or  leastways  he  write  his  paw.  But 
it 's  eight  years  now,  an'  nary  word  nur  sign. 
We-uns  hez  stopped  on  yere,  an'  Bud  he  gits 
good  pay  's  stockman,  and  Mr.  Francis  he  won' 
yere  a  word  agin  'im  ;  but  thet  ar  ole  story  don' 
never  let  us  'lone.  Folkses  don'  knaw  fur  shore 
he  done  hit,  but  they  don'  knaw  fur  shore  he 
did  n't  done  hit,  an'  they  all  don'  want  fur  ter 
hev  no  truck  with  us.  The  wust  er 't  are,  Bud 
he  cayn't  git  reconciled  no  way,  an'  he  studies 
an'  studies  twell  he  are  plum  changed ;  he  ain't 
the  same  man  like  —  Law  me  !  ef  thar  ain't 
Bud  over  yander,  an'  'thout  Ma'  Bowlin' !  " 

''  So  't  is,"  said  the  widow,  rising,  "  an'  time 
fur  me  ter  be  gwine,  too." 

"  Ye  come  fur  a  fire  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Quinn,  in 
hospitable  sarcasm ;  "  w'y  won't  ye  stop  fur 
dinner  ?  Res'  yo  bunnit  on  the  bed  and  dror 
up  —  do  !  " 

But  the  widow  was  not  to  be  detained.  It 
almost  seemed  as  though  she  were  hurrying 
away  from  her  host,  who  had  alighted,  and  was 
now  in  his  own  doorway.  He  brushed  past 
her  with  a  surly  "Howdy?"  and  flung  himself 
into  a  seat  before  the  table,  where  Mrs.  Quinn 
presently  served  him,  smiling  as  cheerfully  as 


o 


"MA'  BOWLIIV."  245 

though  she  expected  a  smile  in  return,  which  is 
hardly  likely,  did  she  pay  any  attention  to  ex- 
perience. 

"  Ye  did  n't  meet  up  with  Ma'  Bowlin'  no- 
whar?"  said  she.  "She  war  purportin'  ter 
show  ye  her  new  gownd.  She  looked  so  purty 
in  it,  an'  railly,  Bud,  Ma'  Bowlin'  hev 
I'arned  "  — 

"  I  wisht  ye'd  quit  yo'  everlastin'  gabbin'  ' 
'beout  Ma'  Bowlin',"  the  man  broke  in,  sav- 
agely. "  Naw,  I  did  n't  meet  up  with  'er,  nur 
I  did  n't  wanter.  I  've  had  nuff  er  Ma'  Bowlin' 
a'ready  this  mornin'.  Thet  thar  blamed  fool 
Tom  Lardy  darst  ter  tell  me  she  war  a  jedg- 
ment  on  me  fur  killin'  Zed  Ruffner,  an'  thar 
war  half  a  dozen  t'  other  men  reoun  ter  back  'im 
up.  Jes  down  yander  en  the  stone  't  war.  I 
don'  guess  I  wanter  hear  ony  mo'  er  Ma'  Bow- 
lin'." 

He  scowled  at  his  food  the  picture  of  morose, 
dejection ;  yet  only  eight  years  ago  Bud  Quinn 
had  been  the  model  young  man  of  the  hill  coun- 
try, whom  fathers  were  accustomed  to  hold  up 
to  their  sons,  and  whose  mop  of  red-brown  curls, 
sparkling  eyes,  and  splendid  muscles  were  not 
more  admired  by  the  hill  girls  than  his  jovial 
good-humor. 

Sukey  Quinn  was  used  to  "  Bud's  ways,"  but 
even  to  her  Bud  seemed  more  wretched,  and  by 


246  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

consequence  more  sullen,  than  usual.  She  sat 
pondering,  her  pleasant  countenance  a  little 
saddened,  until  at  last  she  said,  rather  timidly : 
"  Bud,  I  ben  studyin'.  I  don'  see  no  reason  fur 
ter  b'lieve  that  ar  Zed  '11  turn  up.  Le  's  quit 
Clover  Bend  an'  go  back  ter  the  hills,  an'  mek 
a  fresh  start  whar  folkses  don'  knaw." 

"  An'  them  all  be  mekin'  their  brags  on  me  ? 
Ye  talk  like  a  fool ! " 

Sukey  did  n't  wince ;  the  phrase  was  only 
one  of  those  "  ways  "  to  which  she  was  accus- 
tomed. Discussions  between  the  pair  were  apt 
to  end  in  that  final  retort  by  Bud,  "  Ye  talk 
like  a  fool ! "  Not  that  Bud  really  thought 
that  she  did  talk  foolishly ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
had  a  great  pride  in  her  sense  :  it  was  simply 
that  he  was  at  the  end  of  his  arguments,  but 
not  of  his  combativeness.  Sukey  would  listen 
with  unfeigned  good  temper,  understanding 
perfectly  that  he  gave  vent  to  his  sorrows  and 
angers  for  the  sake  of  being  consoled  and  con- 
tradicted at  once,  and  bearing  no  more  malice 
for  her  snubbings  than  she  would  have  borne 
her  baby  had  it  kicked  her  in  a  fit  of  colic ;  for 
Sukey  was  a  maternal  soul,  who  treated  her 
husband  all  the  more  gently  because  his  unde- 
served ignominy  had  soured  his  temper.  "Law 
me !  men  folkses  they  cayn't  hoi'  in,"  she  said 
to  her  sole  confidant,  the  widow  from  Georgia ; 


o 


"MA'  BOWLIN"."  247 

"an'  I  are  the  onlies'  critter  Bud  kin  sass,  kase 
they  all 's  so  sot  agin  'im  't  wun't  tek  mo'n  a 
word  ter  fetch  a  shoot." 

But  this  admirable  impersonal  way  of  view- 
ing things  failed  when  it  came  to  Ma'  Bowlin' ; 
and  Sukey,  so  tolerant,  so  equable  everywhere 
else,  could  not  endure  a  slighting  word  there. 

Bud  knew  this  as  well  as  anybody,  and  a 
kind  of  instinct  had  kept  him  silent  about  his 
aversion  to  his  child.  At  least  he  was  never 
openly  unkind  to  her.  But  to-day  he  was  ach- 
ing with  impotent  anger  and  humiliation  and 
an  intolerable  sense  of  wrong.  "  An'  't  war  all 
longer  Z^er,"  he  thought,  meaning  poor  Ma' 
Bowlin'.     ^'  I  'clare  I  hate  'er  !  " 

He  jumped  out  of  his  chair  and  began  walk- 
ing the  floor,  talking  furiously.  "  Hit 's  no 
good  ;  they  all  air  down  on  me.  I  cayn't  mek 
a  riffle.  An',  good  Lord !  whut  did  I  done?  I 
never  hurted  a  human  critter  in  my  life,  nur 
wanted  ter.  Yit  look  how  they  run  me  down 
like  a  wil'  hoeg  !  Looks  like  ter  me  thar  war  a 
gre't  black  devil,  too  big  fur  me,  a-harntin'  me, 
an'  mekin'  everything  go  bad  fur  me.  An'  I 
knaw  tvho,  too.  I  tell  ye,  Sukey,  't  are  that 
thar  ole  gypsy  critter  I  would  n't  let  camp  in 
we  all's  yard :  she  done  it.  Don'  ye  'member 
how  she  cussed  me  turrible  hard  ?  An'  I  seen . 
a  black  cat  nex'  day,  an'  that  ar  m.ght  't  hap- 
pened.     Oh.  dad  burn  her!" 


2-4:8  KNITTERS  IN   THE  SUN. 

He  swung  his  arm  out  in  a  gesture  of  uncon- 
trollable irritation.  The  wall  was  nearer  than 
he  realized,  and  his  fist  struck  the  logs  smartly. 
Bud  laughed. 

"  Bud,  I  are  sorry  fur  ye,"  said  his  wife,  very 
gently. 

There  was  a  pity  and  tenderness  in  her  voice 
that  soothed  Bud  in  spite  of  himself,  but  he 
was  in  a  mood  to  resent  comfort.  He  raved 
on  :  "  Oh !  I  'm  done  now  ;  I  won'  stan'  no  mo' 
er  they  all's  fool  tricks.  I  tek  my  gun  ter  the 
store  ter-morrer.     Let  'em  sass  me  then  I  " 

Sukey  was  too  wise  to  argue  further,  since 
Bud  was  quite  capable  of  carrying  out  his 
threat.  She  wondered  whether  he  bad  finished 
his  dinner,  but  was  afraid  to  inquire,  so  she 
began  to  remove  the  superfluous  dishes  —  very 
softly. 

Bud  remained  glowering  at  the  fire  until  he 
was  disturbed  by  her  passing  to  put  a  plate  on 
the  hearth.  ''  Whut  ye  doin'  with  them  taters  ?  " 
growled  he. 

"  Wa'al,  ye  knaw.  Ma'  Bowlin'  —  she  ain't 
back  yet." 

"  An'  good  luck  fur  we  all  if  she  never  comes 
back." 

The  cruel  answer  made  the  poor  woman  turn 
pale  and  tremble;  she  was  so  hurt  that  the  tears 
would  not  come.     Not  lifting  his  sullen  eyes, 


"MA'  BOW  UN'."  249 

Bud  went  on :  "  Ye  much  thet  ar  critter  a  heap ; 
be  ye  so  shore  she  are  your^n?  Hain't  ye  never 
read  en  the  Bible  'beout  them  thar  folkses  was 
persessed  er  the  devil?  You  knaw  that  boy  — 
Sukey,  I  swar  w'en  I  see  the  critter  grin-grin- 
nin'  ayfter  me,  I  swar  looks  like  ter  me  thet  ar 
same  devil  wants  me  's  got  inter  her !  Thar, 
hit  's  spoke  now ;  I  cud  n't  never  bide  thet  ar 
chile  —  and  now  ye  knaw  w'y." 

He  would  not  look  at  his  wife,  though  he  could 
hear  her  sob  as  he  strode  out  of  the  house. 

It  miojht  have  been  two  hours  before  he  came 
back  to  find  the  rooms  empty,  and  to  see  Sukey 
running  swiftly  across  the  soaked  cotton  fields, 
her  sun -bonnet  on  her  back,  her  hair  blown 
about  a  scared  white  face,  and  her  skirts  muddy 
up  to  her  waist. 

''Bud,"  she  screamed,  "git  the  bosses! 
Quick  !     Ma'  Bowlin's  en  the  swamp  !  " 

"  My  !  ray !  my  !  Sukey  !  "  exclaimed  Bud, 
peevishly,  "  whut  ye  mean  traipsin'  'beout  the 
kentry  so  ondecent  ?     Look  at  yo'  skeert ! " 

Sukey  had  reached  the  porch  by  this  time. 
She  could  hardly  catch  her  breath,  but  she 
panted  out :  "  Git  the  bosses !  She  went  ter 
the  store  an'  axed  fur  ye  like  I  tole  'er,  an' 
they  all  tole  'er  ye  war  gone  ter  Tobe  Morrow's, 
an'  they  'low  she  sot  out  fur  ter  go  ter  Tobe's, 
an'  some  way  missed  the  turn.    I  ben  ter  Tobe's, 


250  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

an'  she  ain't  ben  thar.  Bud,  I  tole  'er  ter  meet 
up  with  ye,  an'  she  's  off  en  the  swamp  s'archin' 
an'  seekin'  ye,  an'  she  '11  go  twell  she  drops  I 
O  my  Lord  !  "  She  was  so  agitated  that  Bud 
stared  at  her  aghast,  for  a  quieter,  more  easy- 
going woman  than  Sukey  Quinn  never  lived  in 
Arkansas.  Sukey  wringing  her  hands,  Sukey 
taking  on,  was  a  spectacle  too  bizarre  for  Bud 
to  realize.  Why,  never  but  once  —  and  then 
suddenly  that  once  returned  so  vividly  that  Bud 
seemed  to  watch  the  torch  flames  slant  in  the 
wind,  and  felt  that  wicked  jerk  of  the  rope 
against  his  throat. 

"Don'  ye  tek  on,  Sukey,"  said  he,  gently; 
"we '11  find  'er." 

The  father  and  mother  rode  together  until 
they  came  to  the  crossing  of  the  two  roads, 
where  Mrs.  Quinn,  who  had  n't  spoken  again, 
drew  rein  to  say  :  "  Mabbe  she  mought  er  gone 
by  the  river  road.  The  Brown  boys  they  wuz 
down  yander  with  their  bateau ;  she  mought  er 
gone  with  them.  Ye  better  go  down  ter  the 
big  bayou." 

"  Whar  —  whar  Zed  —  thar  ?  "  gasped  Bud, 
flinching  at  a  hideous  fancy  which  flitted  over 
the  surface  of  his  mind,  as  a  vulture  might 
brush  a  black  wing  past  an  eye.  Was  the  devil 
haunting  him  going  to  finish  the  job  by  tolling 
his  child  out  to  mire  and  freeze  and  die  just 


*'MA'  BOW  LIN'."  251 

where  they  all  believed  he  had  killed  Zed  Ruff- 
ner  ?     Then  who  would  n't  allow  he  was  guilty  ? 

"  I  '11  go,"  said  he. 

Off  he  galloped,  splashing  through  the  mud- 
dy water.  The  road  to  the  "  big  bayou"  was 
mostly  under  water.  North  and  south,  east 
and  west,  the  eye  met  the  same  horizontal  lines, 
now  dark,  now  gleaming,  dappled  with  flicker- 
ing prints  of  leafage,  etched  with  shadows  of 
trunks  and  limbs,  and  here  and  there  lost  in  a 
soft  fur-like  growth  of  young  cane.  Uncanny 
shapes  of  roots  and  logs  and  cypress  knees 
showed  duskily  under  the  lustrous  green  water, 
blending  with  the  masses  of  shade  which  huge 
live-oaks  and  cypresses  flung  on  the  surface, 
until  it  was  hard  telling  which  was  the  reality 
of  form  and  which  the  semblance.  An  opal- 
escent mist  rose  from  the  open  spaces  toward 
the  west,  through  which  blazed  a  sea  of  gold. 
The  forest  was  in  blossom.  Sumptuous  petals 
of  wild- plum  flowers  or  dog-wood  drifted  among 
the  trees.  Aloft  was  a  twitter  of  birds  and 
bird  happiness,  drowned  for  a  second  by  the 
splash  of  hurrying  hoofs,  but  instantly  reassert- 
ing itself  and  rippling  keenly  and  blithely 
through  the  wood. 

Peril  hid  underfoot,  and  beauty  was  plain 
aboTe ;  but  the  horseman  rushing  by  was  not 
conscious   of   either.     There    was    an    extraor- 


252  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

dinary  and  terrible  commotion  in  Bud  Quinn's 
mind  ;  using  his  own  phrase,  he  was  "  powerful 
riled  up  "  ;  and  whether  what  he  felt  was  grief, 
or  dread,  or  a  ghastly  relief,  he  could  n't  tell  for 
his  life.  Too  simple  for  analysis,  his  emotions 
took  the  image  of  pictures  —  his  wife  in  the 
swamp,  the  old  crone  cursing  him,  his  neighbors 
frowning,  and  the  children  running  to  get  out 
of  his  way.  Then  he  was  fooling  with  those 
sweet-potatoes  that  he  sent  around  one  winter 
because  nobody  else  had  any  left.  His  throat 
tightened  and  his  cheeks  burned,  just  as  they 
did  when  every  bag  and  basket  came  back. 
What  a  heap  of  those  fool  things  he  did,  any- 
how, and  how  bad  he  felt  about  them !  Visions 
of  Ma'  Bowlin'  came  incessantly.  She  was  a 
baby ;  a  girl,  when  he  wanted  a  boy ;  she  was  a 
toddling  little  thing  who  would  n't  learn  to  talk, 
but  used  queer  sounds  of  her  own  for  a  lan- 
guage ;  he  had  a  notion  that  it  was  this  which 
first  gave  him  his  repugnance  to  the  child.  She 
was  a  girl  whose  feeble  mind  was  a  judgment ; 
then  he  slowly  grew  to  hate  her.  He  did  n't 
know  whether  he  hated  her  now  or  not;  he 
only  knew  that  if  Sukey  wanted  her  so  bad,  she 
must  have  her.  Presently  another  feeling  stole 
into  the  medley  of  his  thoughts.  As  the  air 
grew  chill  with  nightfall  he  began  to  consider 
the  child.     "Say,  ye  devil,"  called  Bud,  who 


"MA'  BOW  LIN':'  253 

was  as  brave  as  he  was  superstitious,  and  made 
no  ado  of  defying  the  devil  by  name  —  "  say, 
it 's  a  mean  trick  er  your'n  toUin'  thet  ar  little 
critter  off  inter  the  swamp  !  "  He  took  sides 
with  Ma'  Bowlin'.  *'  Dad  burn  ye,  devil,  I  '11 
find  'er  an'  fotch  'er  home  spiter  ye !  "  cried  he. 
Then  he  would  shout,  "  Ma'  Bowlin'  —  hit 's 
paw !  I  'm  a-comin',  baby;  don'  ye  be  skeered." 
But  only  the  echo  of  his  own  voice  returned  to 
him.  He  reached  the  big  bayou.  It  was  a 
moment  before  he  could  collect  himself  enough 
to  look  about,  and  his  heart  jumped  when  he 
saw  a  floating  log.  The  relief  which  he  felt 
surprised  him.  "  A  body  'd  'low  I  set  store  by 
the  little  trick,"  he  said,  huskily ;  ''but  I'm 
glad  ye  did  n't  do  it  yefe,  anyhow,  devil  1  " 

His  horse  was  worn  out ;  the  stars  were  shin- 
ing ;  there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  home. 

As  soon  as  he  reached  the  brow  of  the  little 
hill  which  dips  into  the  swamp  beyond  the  mill, 
he  could  see  lights  dancing  through  the  fields 
and  hear  shouts. 

A  horseman  galloped  toward  him  holding  up 
a  torch.  Mr.  Francis  it  was,  the  resident  owner 
of  the  plantation. 

"  Come  to  the  store.  Bud,"  he  called ;  "we  're 
all  out." 

Indeed,  Mrs.  Quinn  had  aroused  the  planta- 
tion, and  the  men  had  been  scouring  the  country 


254  .    KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

all  the  afternoon.  One  band  had  just  come  in, 
and  were  sitting  on  horseback  before  the  plat- 
form of  the  store.  Their  leader  sat  sideways 
on  his  saddle  in  an  attitude  of  languid  indiffer- 
ence, yet  he  had  ridden  harder  than  any  one. 
He  was  a  slightly  built  man,  whose  thin  face 
looked  the  thinner  for  a  peaked  black  beard 
and  long  straight  silky  black  hair  falling  over 
his  flannel  collar.  His  features  were  regular, 
and  his  dark  eyes  had  a  very  pleasant,  mild  ex- 
pression. 

"  Reckon  ye  'ain't  fund  no  trail  ?  "  he  said, 
listlessly,  not  looking  at  Bud,  to  whom  the 
other  men  also  paid  no  attention. 

"Naw,  Mr.  Ruffner,"  answered  Bud. 

"  Mos'  like  she  strayed  off  en  the  swamp. 
We  all  bes'  look  up  them  hoeuses  off  in  the 
cane-brake.  Thar  's  coffee  b'ilin'  en  the  store, 
an'  Mis'  Quinn  are  thar." 

Bud  dismounted  and  entered  the  store.  A 
portion  of  the  long  room  had  been  railed  off 
for  an  "  office."  The  store  is  the  centre  of 
everything  on  a  plantation.  The  office  was 
full  of  women,  and  a  cloud  of  vapor  came  from 
a  boiler  of  coffee  on  the  stove.  The  widow 
from  Georgia  was  ladling  coffee,  and  Mrs. 
Quinn  holding  the  cups. 

Just  then  a  little  commotion  outside  caused 
all  the  other  women  to  run  out,  giving  Bud  an 


o 


''MA'  B0WLIN\"  255 

opportunity  to  approach  his  wife.  Her  face 
was  so  strange  and  rigid  that  he  was  fright- 
ened, and  her  eyes  traveled  over  his  mud- 
splashed  figure  in  hopeless,  stern  inquiry. 

"  Ye  need  n't  tell  me,"  said  she,  "  ye  did  n't 
fin'  nuthin'.  I  reckon  yo'  glad.  Ye  hated  'er ; 
ye  wanted  'er  outen  yo'  road,  an'  ye  got  yo' 
wan  tin'.  But  don'  come  nigh  me  ;  fur  ef  my 
baby  's  los',  I  '11  never  live  longer  ye  no  mo', 
Bud  Quinn  —  never  !  " 

"  Oh,  hush  !  "  said  the  widow  from  Georgia, 
good-humoredly ;  ''  thet  ain't  no  tallc  fur  'tween 
man  an'  wife !  Ain't  the  chile  his'n  well 's 
yuur'n?  G'way,  Bud;  she  don' knaw  rightly 
whut  she 's  sayin'." 

With  that  she  pushed  Bud  — dumb  as  a  bird 
caught  up  in  a  whirlwind  —  out  into  the  main 
room  of  the  store, 

"  Wy  are  Sukey  gone  back  on  me  ?  "  were 
the  first  words  he  could  stammer. 

"I  reckon  she's  wored  out,"  answered  the 
widow,  grimly.  "  Look-a-here,  Bud  Quinn ;  I 
sorter  taken  yo'  side  jes  now,  but  't  ain't  kase  I 
got  ony  gre't  opinion  of  ye,  for  I  'ain't "  — 

"  Yo'  like  they  all ;  ye  'low  "  — 

"I  don'  'low  ye  hurted  Zed  Ruffner,  if  ye 
mean  that.  No,  sir ;  I  got  a  low  down  'pinion 
of  ye  jes  kase  ye  treat  yo'  wife  so  mean  —  an' 
thet  thar  po'  little  trick  she  's  so  petted  on,  po' 


256  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN. 

little  innercent,  smilin',  mindin'  critter,  always 
cravin'  fur  to  please  ye !  She  ain't  to  blame 
fur  not  havin'  good  sense ;  I  reckon  she  'd  take 
sense  if  she  cud!  But  ye  had  a  grudge  agin 
'er  kase  she  was  throwed  up  at  ye  fur  a  jedg- 
ment.  An'  I  kin  tell  ye,  Bud  Quinn,  ye  made 
folks  dead  sho'  she  was  a  jedgment  jes  by  the 
way  ye  treated  'er !  Ye  've  grieved  Sukey  all 
that  chile's  life  treatin'  'er  so.  Not  a  kin'  word 
nur  look  fur  her ;  an'  ye  ben  so  busy  studyin* 
on  yo'  troubles  an'  hatin'  t'  other  folks  fur  mis- 
jedgin'  ye,  that  ye  never  taken  no  thought  er 
her'n !  Laws  !  Bud  Quinn,  d'  ye  expect  she 
liked  bein'  looked  down  on?  Or  liked  fur  to 
have  Ma'  Bowlin  half  cracked?  Or  liked  fur 
to  have  you  glumin'  roun'  nur  never  muchin' 
yo'  own  chile  ?  I  reckon  Sukey's  human,  an 
ye  've  got  ter  the  eend  er  'er  long-sufferin' "  — 

"Wa'al,  Mis'  Brand,"  Bud  interrupted  dog- 
gedly, "  whutsumever  I  done,  jawin'  me  won't 
fin'  Ma'  Bowlin'.  I  got  ter  git  my  tother  boss 
an'  go.  Ye  tell  Sukey  I  '11  find  Ma'  Bowlin' 
—  someways  I " 

"Ye  Je^fer,"  retorted  the  unabashed  widow, 
"  an'  the  less  truck  ye  try  ter  have  with  Sukey 
befo'  then,  the  mo'  she  '11  like  ye." 

Bud  walked  away  without  another  word. 
Mr.  Francis  gave  him  a  torch,  and  he  rode  off 
on  his  fresh  horse.  Nobody  else  spoke  to  him 
or  offered  him  any  help. 


"MA'  BOWLIN\"  257 

This  time  he  chose  the  high-road.  For  some 
distance  it  was  above  water  ;  but,  finally,  he 
came  to  a  depression  in  the  ground  which  the 
overflow  had  turned  into  a  shallow  river,  filled 
with  leaves  and  sticks  and  floating  logs,  and  all 
the  debris  of  the  swamp.  By  stepping  from 
log  to  log  it  was  just  possible  for  a  footman  to 
cross  to  the  firm  land  beyond. 

"  Ma'  Bowlin'  war  powerful  spry,"  thought 
Bud  ;  "  hopped  like  a  'coon."  He  had  a  feel- 
ing of  admiration  for  the  child's  agility. 
"  Mought  be  a  show  er  findin'  a  trail  ef  't  war 
daylight,"  he  muttered  ;  "  cayn't  do  much 
with  a  torch."  But  he  held  it  high,  and  sud- 
denly he  uttered  a  loud  exclamation.  On  the 
moss  of  one  of  the  logs  was  a  tiny  footprint. 
In  spite  of  the  darkness  he  had  found  the  trail. 
To  pursue  it  was  not  so  difficult :  here  a  freshly 
broken  twig  where  the  little  fingers  had  caught, 
there  a  patch  of  moss  as  though  a  foot  had 
slipped,  oak  limbs  swayed  out  of  place,  or  logs 
wet  by  a  fresh  immersion  beneath  a  passing 
weight,  told  the  story  of  the  journey  plainly 
enough  for  a  woodman  like  Bud. 

But  all  at  once  the  trail  ceased.  Let  him 
ride  in  what  direction  he  might,  he  could  not 
find  a  sign.  The  print  of  fingers  on  the  low 
branch  of  a  pawpaw-tree  showed  that  so  far 
the  little  traveler  must  have  come  ;  but  there 


258  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

was  the  end.  While  Bud  hesitated,  a  great 
log  drifted  slowly  and  majestically  through  the 
circle  of  light  cast  by  his  torch  out  into  the  for- 
est darkness. 

"  Mought  er  skipped  on  a  log  like  thet," 
Bud  mused,  "  an'  the  log  sailed  off  ;  but,  God 
A'mighty,  witch  way  ?  " 

He  rode  aimlessly  about  the  swamp,  shout- 
ing until  he  was  hoarse :  "  Ma'  Bowlin' !  Ma' 
Bowlin'  !  Paw  's  comin'  !  Don't  be  skeered, 
honey !     Who-op  !     Whoo-op  !  " 

He  could  hardly  remember  the  time  when 
he  had  used  such  a  caressing  word  to  the  child ; 
but  now,  somehow  the  image  of  the  little 
"  wanting,"  trustful  thing  hunting  for  him  in 
the  swamp  affected  him  strangely.  He  remem- 
bered that  there  had  been  times  when  his  heart 
had  turned  to  the  child  and  he  had  hardened 
it  again.  One  scene  in  particular  kept  recur- 
ring to  him.  He  had  gone  to  a  Fourth  of  July 
celebration,  and  the  people  were  sitting  in 
groups  about  the  grass,  eating  their  luncheon. 
Lum  Shinault  was  leaning  against  a  tree  near 
Bud,  and  his  little  daughter,  hardly  two  years 
old,  toddled  up  to  him,  stretching  out  her  arms 
and  crying,  *'Up  !  up  !  "  Lum  snatched  her  up 
and  marched  along  with  her,  laughing  and  sing- 
ing. At  this  Ma'  Bowlin',  who  was  not  quite 
six  years  old,  but  just  beginning  to  talk,  pulled 


o 


''MA'  BOWLiJsr."  259 

at  Bud's  trousers.  *'  Up  !  up  ! "  she  stammered, 
in  exactly  the  other  child's  tone.  It  made  some 
of  the  children  titter,  and  Bud  was  furious. 
He  pushed  the  little  thing  away.  He  remem- 
bered how  the  smiling  little  face  had  fallen, 
and  how  she  had  run  to  hide  it  against  her 
mother's  arm.  Sukey  had  lifted  her  up,  heavy 
as  she  was.  "  Maw  '11  tote  ye  a  piece,  honey." 
Bud  could  hear  the  words,  with  the  slight 
tremor  in  them,  so  distinctly  that  he  started. 
"  Lord,  how  cud  I  ben  so  mean  ?  "  he  groaned. 
'*  Thet  blamed  critter  war  right.  Poor  Sukey  ! 
An  she  war  alius  seekin',  quiet  like,  ter  mek 
the  little  trick  set  store  by  me !  " 

The  night  wore  on,  chillier  and  darker  every 
hour.  And  somehow,  as  Bud  Quinn's  hopes 
sank  lower  and  lower,  and  his  torch  began  to 
flare,  and  his  horse  to  stumble  with  fatigue, 
his  mind  went  back  to  his  simple  and  tender 
thoughts  in  the  time  before  Ma'  Bowlin'  was 
born,  and  the  lost  child  was  his  own  little  baby 
again. 

"Lord,  but  I  hate  ter  leave  ye,  honey,"  he 
cried,  "  but  Nig  cajmt  skeercely  walk.  I  '11 
come  back  quick 's  I  kin." 

The  morning  was  dawning  before  he  reached 
the  store.  There  is  always  something  dispirit- 
ing about  the  first  gray  dawn,  and  the  forlorn- 
ness  of  a  cotton  plantation  when  the  mill  has 


260  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

black  unsightly  wooden  walls,  showing  gaps, 
and  the  whitewash  is  peeling  off  the  sides  of 
the  store,  and  a  fog  hangs  over  the  drowned 
lands,  was  in  this  case  increased  by  half  a  dozen 
muddy  horses  dropping  their  necks  below  the 
horns  of  their  saddles  by  the  store  fence.  All 
night  the  search  had  gone  on  with  no  result. 
Ruffner  was  just  in,  bringing  no  news  except 
that  every  cabin  within  ten  miles  had  been 
visited  in  vain.  He  told  Bud  that  Sukey  was 
out  searching.  Three  or  four  men  had  come 
out  on  the  platform.  They  put  their  hands  in 
their  pockets,  and  looked  at  Bud  curiously  as 
he  almost  tumbled  off  his  horse.  He  staggered 
and  fell,  in  fact,  when  he  tried  to  walk.  They 
did  not  take  their  hands  out  of  their  pockets, 
and  he  got  up  painfully  and  leaned  against  a 
post.  Lnm  Shinault,  coming  to  the  door,  saw 
him,  and  went  back,  to  reappear  directly  with 
a  steaming  cup  of  coffee  and  a  piece  of  corn 
bread. 

"  Ye  hev  ter  eat  'em,"  he  said.  "  I  don' 
guess  yo'  much  better  off  'n  yo'  boss.  Say,  got 
any  other  un  'cept  the  un  Mis'  Quinn  on  ?  " 

"Naw,"  said  Bud.  "I'll  hev  ter  try  a  ba- 
teau." 

"  Ye  kin  hev  my  gray  if  ye  like,"  said  Lum. 

Tears  started  to  the  broken  man's  eyes. 

"  I  tell  ye  thet  ar  feller  feels  5ac?,"  Lum  told 


o 


''MA'  BOWLIN'r  261 

his  wife,  later.  "Needn't  tell  me  he  don't. 
He  went  off  like  a  shot  the  minnit  he  got  his 
hoss ;  an'  he  done  ben  out  sence  yistiddy 
ev'nin'." 

All  day  the  search  continued.  Late  in  the 
afternoon,  however,  the  worn-out  searchers  be- 
gan to  come  into  the  store.  Last  of  all,  Bud 
Quinn  rode  up  on  Shinault's  horse.  Mrs. 
Quinn  was  talking  to  Ruffner  on  the  platform. 
Ruffner  said,  "  Howdy  ?  naw,  we  ain't  fund 
'er  yit.'^  And  another  man  led  his  own  horse 
away  to  make  room  for  Bud ;  but  Bud  heard 
and  saw  nothing.  He  only  looked  miserably 
at  his  wife,  and  she  turned  away. 

Lum  Shinault  brought  a  horse  to  Bud,  say- 
ing, kindly  :  "  Yere  's  yo'  Nig  ;  he  are  rested 
by  this,  an'  I  've  fed  'im  good.  I  knowed  ye 
cud  n't  res'  twell  ye  knowed  sartin.  But  ye 
mus'  eat  fust ;  an'  Mis'  Brand  's  fotchin'  ye 
suthin'." 

"I  are  'bleeged  ter  ye,  Lum,"  said  Bud  al- 
most sobbing.  He  took  what  the  widow  had 
brought,  while  she  looked  on  grimly.  Then 
he  said :  "Mis'  Brand,  I  are  goin'.  Will  ye 
kin'ly  tell  Sukey  how  she  caynt  want  fur  ter 
fin'  Ma'  Bowlin'  mo'n  me,  nur  be  mo'  wishtful 
ter  be  good  ter  'er  ayfterwuds  ?  " 

"All  right,"  said  the  widow;  "now  ye  talk. 
Bud  Quinn.  Pity  ye  did  n't  talk  that  a-way 
befo' ;  but  better  late  nur  never." 


262  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Bud  was  off  before  she  finished.  She  could 
see  hiin  slip  about  in  the  saddle ;  in  truth,  he 
felt  dizzy  and  weak,  and,  what  is  worse,  hope- 
less. 

Hardly  a  rod  beyond  the  mill  he  was  joined  by 
Ruffner,  who  remarked,  carelessly,  "  Mought  's 
well  travel  "long  tergether,  goin'  same  way." 

'>  Ef  ye  wanter,"  said  Bud.  "  I  'm  goin'  in 
the  bottom." 

They  rode  along,  Ruffner  furtively  watching 
Bud,  until  finally  the  elder  man  spoke  with  the 
directness  of  primitive  natures  and  strong  ex- 
citement :  — 

"  Whut  's  come  ter  ye.  Bud  Quinn  ?  Ye 
seem  all  broke  up  'beout  this  yere  losin'  yo' 
little  trick ;  yit  ye  did  n't  useter  set  no  gre't 
store  by  'er  —  least,  looked  like  "  — 

"  I  knaw,"  answered  Bud,  lifting  his  heavy 
eyes,  too  numb,  himself,  with  weariness  and 
misery  to  be  surprised,  —  "I  knaw  ;  an'  't  ar 
curi's  ter  me  too.  I  did  nt  set  no  store  by 
'er  w'en  I  had  'er.  I  taken  a  gredge  agin  'er 
kase  she  had  n't  got  no  good  sense,  an'  you 
all  throwed  it  up  ter  me  fur  a  jedgment.  An' 
knawin'  how  I  had  n't  done  a  thing  ter  hurt 
Zed,  it  looked  like  cl'ar  agin  right  an'  natur' 
fur  the  Lord  ter  pester  me  that  a-way ;  so  some- 
ways  I  taken  the  notion  't  war  the  devil,  an' 
thet    he   got    inter   Ma'    Bowlin',    an'   I   mos' 


''MA'  BOWLIN\"  263 

cud  n't  b'ar  the  sight  er  that  pore  little  crit- 
ter. But  the  day  she  got  lost  kase  er  tryin'  ter 
meet  up  with  me,  I  'lowed  mabbe  he  tolled  'er 
off,  an'  I  sorter  felt  bad  fur  'er ;  an'  —  an'  w'en 
I  seen  them  little  tracks  er  her'n,  some  ways 
all  them  mean  feelin's  I  got  they  jes  broked 
off  short  insider  me  like  a  string  mought  snap. 
They  done  so.  An'  I  wanted  thet  chile  bader  'n 
I  ever  wanted  anything." 

"  Law  me !  "  said  Ruffner,  quite  puzzled. 
"But  say.  Bud,  ef  ye  want  'er  so  bad's  all  thet, 
ye  war  n't  wanter  mad  the  Lord  by  lyin',  kase 
He  are  yo'  on'y  show  now.  Bud  Quinn,  did 
ye  hurt  my  boy?"  He  had  pushed  his  face 
close  to  Bud's,  and  his  mild  eyes  were  glowing 
like  live  coals. 

"Naw,  Mr.  Ruffner,"  answered  Bud,  quietly, 
"  I  never  tetched  a  ha'r  er  'is  head !  '* 

Ruffner  kept  up  his  eager  and  almost  fierce 
scrutiny  for  a  moment ;  then  he  drew  a  long 
gasping  sigh,  crying,  "  Blame  my  skin  ef  I  don' 
b'lieve  ye !  I  've  'lowed,  fur  a  right  smart,  we 
all  used  ye  mighty  rough." 

"  'T  ain't  no  differ,"  said  Bud,  dully.  Noth- 
ing mattered  now,  the  poor  fellow  thought ; 
Ma'  Bowlin'  was  dead,  and  Sukey  hated  him. 

Ruffner  whistled  slowly  and  dolefully;  that 
was  his  way  of  expressing  sympathy ;  but  the 
whistle  died  on  his  lips,  for  Bud  smote  his 
shoulder,  then  pointed  toward  the  trees. 


264  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Look  a-thar  ! "  whispered  Bud,  witli  a 
ghastly  face  and  dilating  eyeballs :  "  Oh,  Lord 
A'mighty  !  thar  's  her  —  an'  him  !  " 

Ruffner  saw  a  boat  leisurely  propelled  by  a 
long  pole  approaching  from  the  river  side ;  a 
black-haired  young  man  in  the  bow  with  the 
pole,  a  fair-haired  little  girl  in  the  stern.  The 
little  girl  jumped  up,  and  at  the  same  instant 
a  shower  of  water  from  light-flying  heels  blind- 
ed the  young  man. 

"  Paw  !  paw  !  "  screamed  the  little  girl ; 
"  maw  tole  Ma'  Bowlin'  —  meet  up  —  paw !  " 

Bud  had  her  in  his  arms  now;  he  was  pat- 
ting her  shoulder,  and  stroking  her  hair  with  a 
trembling  hand.  Her  face  looked  like  an  an- 
gel's to  him  in  its  cloud  of  shining  hair;  her 
eyes  sparkled,  her  cheeks  were  red,  but  there 
was  something  else  which  in  the  intense  emo- 
tion of  the  moment  Bud  dimly  perceived  —  the 
familiar  dazed  look  was  gone.  How  the  blur 
came  over  that  innocent  soul,  why  it  went,  are 
alike  mysteries.  The  struggle  for  life  wherein, 
amid  anguish  and  darkness,  the  poor  baby  in- 
tellect somehow  went  astray,  and  the  struggle 
for  life  wherein  it  groped  its  way  back  to  light, 
both  are  the  secrets  of  the  swamp,  their  wit- 
ness ;  but  however  obscurely,  none  the  less 
surely,  the  dormant  soul  had  awakened  and 
claimed  its  rights,  and  Ma'  Bowlin'  had  ceased 
to  be  the  baby,  forever. 


"MA'  BOW  LIN  \"  265 

Meanwhile,  if  possible,  the  other  actors  in 
the  scene  were  equally  agitated.  The  old  man 
choked,  and  the  young  man  exclaimed,  huskily, 
"  Paw  !  ye  ain't  dead,  then  ?  " 

"  Waal,  I  don't  guess  I  be,"  said  Ruffner, 
struggling  after  his  old  dry  tone,  though  his 
voice  shook ;  "  did  ye  'low  I  war  ?  " 

"  I  read  it  in  a  Walnut  Ridge  paper  only  a 
month  ayfter  I  went:  'The  late  Mr.  William 
Ruffner  er  Clover  Bend  '  —  an'  a  right  smart 
abeout  ye"'  — 

"  Thet  thar  war  yo'  Uncle  Raker,  boy.  He 
war  on  a  visit  like,  an'  died  ;  an'  that  ar  blamed 
galoot  in  Walnut  Ridge  got  'im  sorter  mixed 
up  with  me,  ye  un'erstan' ;  but  yo'  maw,  she 
are  gone,  boy,  shore,  died  up  an'  burried." 

"  I  kin  b'ar  hit,"  said  Zed  Ruffner ;  "  but  I 
ivas  right  riled  up  'beout  you^  paw.  '  Lef  all 
his  property  to  his  widder,'  says  the  paper ; 
thet  ar  riled  me  too.  Says  I,  ye  wun't  see  me 
very  soon  to  Clover  Bend  —  I  was  allers  sorter 
ashy,  ye  know.  Fur  a  fact,  ye  would  n't  'a 
seen  me  now  ef  't  had  n't  a-ben  fur  this  yere 
little  trick.  I  war  on  a  trade  boat  near  New- 
port, an'  some  fellers  I  know  taken  me  off  fur 
a  night  ter  thar  camp.  They  was  stavers. 
Hit 's  'way  off  in  the  swamp,  twelve  mile  frum 
here ;  an'  I  was  up  befo'  sun  up,  aimin'  ter 
start  back  fur  the  river,  w'en  I  heard  the  fun- 


266  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

niest  sound,  suthin'  like  a  kid,  '  Maw !  maw  ! ' 
Natcbelly  I  listened,  an'  byme-by  I  follered 
ayfter  it,  an'  whut  shud  I  come  on  but  a  gre'fc 
big  log,  an'  this  here  little  critter  settin'  on  't, 
hol'in  on  by  her  two  hands  to  a  sorter  limb 
growin'  on  the  log,  an'  shore's  ye  live,  with 
her  gownd  slung  reoun'  her  neck  in  a  bundle. 
Lord  knows  how  fur  thet  ar  log  had  come,  or 
whut  sorter  travelin'  it  made,  but  thar  war  n't 
a  speck  or  a  spot  on  thet  ar  gownd.  'S  all  I 
cud  do  ter  git  'er  ter  lemme  pack  it  up  in  a 
bundle,  kase  she  wud  n't  put  't  on  nohow ; 
said  the  bateau  was  wet.  So  we  warmed  'er 
an'  fed  'er,  an'  I  taken  her  'er  long  seekin'  fur 
her  kin ;  an'  —  wa'al,  that 's  w'y  I  'm  yere  I  " 

Just  as  the  big  clock  in  the  store  struck  the 
last  stroke  of  six,  Sukey  Quinn,  who  had  been 
cowering  on  the  platform  steps,  lifted  her  head 
and  put  her  hand  to  her  ear.  Then  everybody 
heard  it,  the  long  peal  of  a  horn.  The  widow 
from  Georgia  ran  quickly  up  to  Sukey  and 
threw  her  arm  about  her  shoulders.  For  a 
second  the  people  held  their  breath.  It  had 
been  arranged  that  whoever  found  the  lost 
child  should  give  the  signal  by  blowing  his 
horn,  once  if  the  searchers  came  too  late,  three 
times  if  the  child  should  be  alive.  Would  the 
horn  blow  again? 


o 


"MA'  BOW  UN':'  267 

"  It  are  Bud's  born  !  "  sobbed  Sukey.  "  He  'd 
never  blow  fur  oust !  Hark  !  Thar  't  goes 
agin!  Three  times!  An' me  wud  n't  hev  no 
truck  with  'im ;  but  he  set  store  by  Ma'  Bow- 
lin'  all  the  time." 

Horn  after  horn  caught  up  the  signal  joy- 
fully, and  when  the  legitimate  blowing  was 
over,  two  enterprising  boys  exhausted  them- 
selves on  a  venerable  horn  which  was  so 
cracked  that  no  one  would  take  it.  In  an  in- 
credibly short  time  every  soul  within  hearing 
distance,  not  to  mention  a  herd  of  cattle  and 
a  large  number  of  swine,  had  run  to  the  store, 
and  when  at  last  the  two  horses'  heads  ap- 
peared above  the  hill,  and  the  crowd  could  see 
a  little  pink  sun-bonnet  against  Bud  Quinn's 
brown  jean,  an  immense  clamor  rolled  out,  the 
men  tearing  their  throats  with  shouting,  the 
women  sobbing  aloud,  the  children  yelling  their 
shrillest,  cattle  bellowing,  and  pigs  squealing. 

But  there  came  a  hush  as  Bud  dismounted, 
and,  carrying  Ma'  Bowlin',  walked  up  to  his 
wife,  and  silently  put  the  child  in  her  arms. 

"  Oh,  Bud ! "  sobbed  she,  and  before  she 
looked  at  Ma'  Bowlin'  she  clung  to  him  and 
kissed  him. 

"  It  are  all  right,  all  right,  Sukey,"  he  kept 
repeating,  while  the  tears  ran  down  his  tanned 
cheeks  ;  "  don'  take  on,  honey." 


268  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Laws  !  '*  sniffed  the  widow  from  Georgia, 
flapping  some  drops  off  her  own  face  with  the 
corner  of  her  apron,  "  ef  the  critter  ain't  in  her 
petticuts  !  " 

Then  came  Ma'  Bowhn's  proud  moment. 
She  had  her  bundle  tight  clasped  in  her  little 
arms,  and  now  she  undid  it,  displaying  the 
brilliant  frock.  "  Maw  tole  Ma'  Bowlin'," 
she  cried,  ''  nawnaw  mud  hit,  nawnaw  muss 
hit ;  Ma'  Bowlin'  new  gownd  !  " 

"  An'  ef  't  had  n't  a-ben  fur  the  new  gownd, 
sis,"  said  the  widow,  "  I  reckon  ye  'd  'a  never 
ben  los' !  " 

"  Nur  fetched  back  Zed,"  Ruffner  interjec- 
ted, amid  a  general  bewilderment. 

"  The  Lord  bless  the  gownd,  then,"  said  Bud 
Quinn  ;  "  an'  the  baby  too  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  said  William  Ruffner. 


HALF  A  CURSE. 

On  a  certain  April  day,  in  the  year  1862, 
the  stage-coach  was  waiting  at  the  plaza-corner 
of  the  oldest  Floridian  town.  At  that  time 
the  plaza  was  merely  an  unkempt  common, 
where  cows  and  pigs  might  ramble  at  will,  tak- 
ing their  siestas  in  the  ruined  old  market-house, 
or  sunning  themselves  at  the  base  of  the  stubbed 
pyramid  erected  by  the  last  Spanish  rulers. 
Where  now  the  smart  little  shops  elbow  the 
grim  old  cathedral,  then  high  coquina  walls, 
over  which  waved  orange  and  palmetto-trees, 
joined  the  ancient  house-fronts,  and  hanging 
balconies  cast  a  grateful  shade  on  the  sand  be- 
low. Then  as  now  the  wharf  and  the  sea-wall 
bounded  the  eastern  side,  and  the  water  glit- 
tered behind  a  little  flock  of  sails.  If  one 
stepped  on  the  sea-wall  he  could  see  the  hated 
Yankee  flag  flying  over  the  old  fort,  and  a  blue- 
coated  officer  was  watching  the  crowd  about 
the  coach.  High  above  the  hats  and  bonnets 
towered  a  gay  turban,  and  a  black  cheek  pressed 
tenderly  against  the  white  cheek  of  a  child, 
while  tears  ran  unrestrained  down  both  faces 


270  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

alike.  The  child  sobbed  aloud  ;  but  the  woman, 
not  uttering  a  sound,  only  strained  the  small 
body  closer,  and  looked  through  her  tears  at 
the  young  gentlewoman  beside  her.  She  was 
a  beautiful  creature  —  Johnny  Tindall,  the 
young  Federal  captain,  thought  —  so  slender, 
graceful,  and  high-bred  looking,  with  such  a 
touching  sweetness  of  expression,  and  yet  such 
a  tropical  fire  in  those  brilliant,  almond-shaped, 
dark  eyes.  He  caught  her  last  words  :  "  Yes, 
it  is  hard,  hard  ;  but  what  should  I  do  without 
you  to  take  care  of  the  place  ?  I  know  I  shall 
find  you  here,  whatever  happens." 

"  Yes,  Miss  Nannie,"  was  the  answer ;  ''  I 
keep  de  place  good  's  I  kin,  an'  yo  sholy  fin'  me 
yere  waitin'." 

"  All  aboard  !  "  shouted  the  driver. 

The  parting  came,  and  was  over  ;  Johnny 
had  the  impression  that  all  three  cried  at  once. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  said  he. 

He  spoke  to  his  next  neighbor ;  but  another 
roan  —  a  stout  florid  man  in  civilian's  dress, 
though  wearing  a  military  cap  —  replied  ;  "  Oh, 
jess  some  rebs  leavin'  ruther'n  swaller  the 
oath." 

"  Such  a  trifle  would  n't  send  you  awa}'-, 
would  it,  Baldwin  ? "  said  Johnny,  glancing 
with  undisguised  contempt  at  the  speaker,  a 
sutler  in  his  own  regiment. 


o 


HALF  A  CURSE.  271 

"  Of  course  I  'd  take  the  oath,  captain  ;  I 
ain't  a  Southerner." 

**  I  thought  you  came  from  South  Carohna." 

I  was  only  there  for  a  while,"  said  Baldwin, 
sullenly;  but  directly,  with  a  more  cheerful 
air,  he  added:  "Did  ye  notice  them  people? 
That  there  lady 's  Mrs.'Legree.  Her  pa  was  a 
Charleston  big-bug,  and  she  married  Renny 
Legiee.  He 's  off  in  the  rebel  army.  They  've 
a  mighty  fine  place  here.  Say,  did  you  ever 
see  a  mortal  critter  tali's  that  there  colored 
woman  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  see  her,"  said  Johnny,  walking 
off ;  but  Venus  was  gone. 

Afterward  he  learned  something  of  her  his- 
tory. Venus  Clinch  was  born  a  slave  on  the 
Clinch  plantation  in  South  Carolina.  She 
claimed  to  have  Indian  blood  in  her  veins,  which 
is  quite  possible,  since  her  father  was  one  of 
the  "negro  allies"  of  the  Seminoles,  captured 
durino"  the  Florida  wars.  Venus  was  a  famous 
cook;  and  on  Miss  Nannie  Clinch's  marriage, 
she  was  one  of  the  wedding-gifts.  With  her 
went  Ambrose,  her  husband,  a  handsome,  amia- 
ble, indolent,  utterly  worthless  mulatto.  It 
was  supposed  that  Venus  might  want  her  hus- 
band's company.  She,  however,  was  a  most 
philosophical  spouse.  "Now,  ole  marse,"  said 
she,  kindly,  "  don'  ye  poturb  yoseff  'bout  Am- 


272  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

bros'.  I  ain't  no-ways  'tickler  'bout  dat  ar  nig- 
ger. Ef  you  all  kin  git  'im  trowed  in  wid  de 
bosses,  I  says,  fotch  'im  'long ;  but  he  ain't 
wuth  no  buy  in'  no  ticket  fo',  dat  's  sho  !  " 

Nevertheless  Ambrose  came,  and  often 
enough  Venus  regretted  her  qualified  assent. 

"  Mazin'  how  come  I  taken  up  wid  dat  tri- 
flin',  ornery,  yaller  nigger,"  she  would  say. 
''  Nebber  done  a  stroke  fo'  me,  nebber  guv  me 
nuffin'  —  'cept  de  measles,  an'  dem  I  wan't 
seekin'.  Dese  yere  yaller  niggers  dey  's  no  na- 
tion ;  got  de  good  er  none,  an'  bad  er  all.  Am- 
bros'  am  bad  down  to  he  heel." 

Venus  never  had  but  one  child,  and  it  died 
in  infancy.  After  that  her  sore  heart's  entire 
and  lavish  devotion  was  given  to  Nannie  Clinch. 
She  was  a  faithful  servant  to  all  the  Clinches, 
but  she  worshiped  "  Miss  Nannie." 

All  these  particulars  gradually  came  to  John- 
ny, who  very  soon  made  Venus's  acquaintance. 

The  beginning  was  his  noticing  her  as  she 
walked  daily  on  the  beach  before  the  barracks ; 
indeed,  no  one  could  help  noticing  a  figure  built 
on  such  an  enormous  scale.  Besides,  there  was 
a  certain  massive  dignity,  and  even  symmetry, 
about  her  form,  and  her  features,  Indian  rather 
than  negro,  were  brightened  by  a  smile  of  true 
African  good -humor.  Her  costume  recalled 
the  best  days  of  the  vanished  regime.    Her  gay 


o 


HALF  A    CURSE.  273 

turban  and  her  white  apron  were  always  fresh 
from  the  iron  ;  and  on  her  head  was  poised  a 
great  basket  filled  with  enticing  tropical  sweet- 
meats, the  secrets  of  which  Aunt  Venus  had 
guarded  for  years. 

When  neither  vending  her  wares  nor  making 
them,  she  toiled  in  the  Legare  garden.  Mean- 
while, Ambrose  led  a  life  of  elegant  leisure  as 
skipper  of  a  sail-boat  so  leaky  and  unruly  that 
only  a  suicide  could  care  to  hire  it.  A  little 
labor  would  have  made  a  tidy  sloop  out  of  this 
relic  of  the  Legares,  but  Ambrose  always  said  : 
"Dar's  udder  t'ings  en  life  dan  toilin'  fo' 
money !  " 

Johnny  was  Venus's  best  customer.  Nothing 
pleased  the  faithful  creature  more  than  to  talk 
of  her  mistress. 

"  I  'members,"  said  she,  "  de  ve'y  fustis  time 
I  sot  heyes  on  Miss  Nannie,  to  know  'er.  Ye 
muss  know,  sah,  dat  I  wuz  bawn  on  de  planta- 
tion an'  raised  dar  twel  I  'se  risin'  er  sixteen, 
w'en  my  mammy  she  done  die  up.  She  wuz  a 
witch'ooman,  my  mammy  wuz ;  an'  one  er 
witchin's,  'e  done  got  twurn'  roun',  some'ow, 
an'  hit  kill'  'er  dead.  De  obberseer,  he  'lowed 
't  wuz  kase  't  wuz  fallin'  wedder,  an'  she 
cotch  cold  en  de  wet.  But  I  knows  't  wuz  de 
witchin'  !  So,  den,  dey  sen'  me  ter  Chawlston, 
an'  de  cook  she  I'arn  me  ter  cook,  an'  spat  me 


274  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

good  wh'n  she  's  mad ;  an'  onct  she  guy  me  a 
nios'  outrigeous  lick  wid  a  stick  er  fat  wood,  an' 
runned  a  splenter  enter  my  awm.  So,  den,  I 
wuz  pickin'  at  it  outside,  an'  a  grievin'  fo' 
my  mammy  —  dat  nebber  taken  nufiin'  wuss'n 
a  sbengle  to  me  —  an'  a  bellerin'  ve'y  sorf  like, 
dat  Aunt  Phoebe  don'  heah  my  lammertations, 
an'  give  me  mo'  ter  lammertate  fo',  w'en  in 
runs  my  Miss  Nannie.  De  angil  looks  er  dat 
cbile  in  'er  sweet  li'le  w'ite  frock,  an'  de  li'le 
black  slippers,  an'  de  big  blue  sash.  An',  ef  ye 
please,  she  taken  pity  on  me  an'  guy  me  a  big 
chunk  er  cake,  an'  calls  her  paa  ter  cut  out  de 
splenter.  She  did  so.  He  wuz  a  ye'y  kin' 
man,  ole  marse  ;  an'  so  wuz  ole  miss,  too,  dat's 
cole  an'  dead  now,  po'  t'ing  !  " 

It  was  curious  what  a  sense  of  intimacy 
Johnny  came  to  feel  in  this  unseen  rebel  fam- 
ily. He  knew  all  about  "ole  marse"  and  "ole 
miss,"  who  had  been  an  invalid  ("  ole  marse 
kep'  'er  a  invaleed  fo'  twenty  yeahs  "),  and 
Marse  Tim,  and  Marse  Bertie. 

Johnny's  cheeks  were  rosy,  and  he  had  a 
chubby  little  figure  ;  but  there  was  a  streak  of 
romance  in  his  kind  heart  —  why,  indeed,  should 
only  the  thin  be  romantic?  —  and  it  pleased 
him  to  be  indirectly  serving  these  absent  ene- 
mies through  Venus.  She  always  received  him 
in  the  garden.     "  I  wud  like  mazin'  ter  ax  ye 


HALF  A    CURSE.  275 

in,  marse  cap'n,  but  I  knows  Miss  Nannie's 
'pinyuns,  an'  I  cayn't  ;  but  de  kitchen,  dat 
'long  ter  me,  an'  you  is  right  welcome  dar, 
alius.  I  ain't  none  er  yo'  cooks  dat  's  skeered 
fp'  hab  folks  see  dar  cookin'." 

Johnny's  eyes  twinkled.  North,  his  chubby 
form  was  hailed  with  delight  by  all  the  mothers 
of  his  acquaintance  —  for  Johnny  had  great 
possessions.  South,  it  appeared,  he  might  be 
glad  to  visit  the  kitchen.  He  did  visit  the 
kitchen,  and  was  content  to  view  the  mansion 
from  the  garden.  Yenus  regarded  the  house 
with  awe,  and  even  to  Johnny's  eyes  it  looked 
imposing  —  a  Southern  house  of  the  last  gener- 
ation, built  in  fond  imitation  of  a  South  Caro- 
lina home,  with  its  lofty  Doric  portico,  and  the 
galleries  on  the  sides,  which  the  Cherokee  rose 
changed  into  bowers.  But  it  was  the  garden 
which  was  Johnny's  paradise.  Here,  orange- 
trees,  magnolias,  and  myrtles  kept  an  unchang- 
ing verdure  through  the  season,  palmettoes  lined 
the  wide  avenue,  and  strangely  cut  leaves  of 
the  tropics  —  fig,  pomegranate,  date-palm  — 
mingled  with  more  familiar  foliage  ;  while 
everywhere  the  tree-limbs  dripped  with  Spanish 
moss.  A  sumptuous  color  and  glow  dazzled 
the  Northern  eye ;  trumpet  flowers  swinging 
their  flames  against  the  walls,  oleanders  taller 
than  pear-trees,  the  gold  of  jasmine  and   the 


276  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

dead-white  of  orange-blossoms  relieved  against 
the  weird  haze  of  the  dripping  trees.  Johnny 
used  to  be  reminded  of  the  Garden  of  Eden. 
He  would  tell  himself  that  the  poignant  odors 
which  filled  the  air  had  intoxicated  him. 

Certainly  he  thought  more  than  was  good  for 
him  of  the  beautiful  mistress  of  the  place. 

So,  during  a  few  weeks  he  walked  in  the 
garden,  and  Venus  toiled  hopefully,  and  Am- 
brose was  quite  as  hopeful  though  he  did  not 
toil  at  all.  Then,  one  fine  morning.  Captain 
Tindall's  regiment  marched  away. 

He  went  in  the  autumn ;  and  in  the  following 
summer  he  was  sent  back  to  the  town  oq  some 
military  business.  As  soon  as  he  could  he  went 
to  see  Venus.  There  was  a  dismal  change  in 
the  place.  The  gate  was  gone,  and  the  fence 
looked  as  though  a  regiment  had  charged  down 
on  it.  Within,  it  was  worse.  The  flower-beds 
were  trampled  out  of  shape,  the  scuppernong- 
vines  draggled  on  the  ground,  as  if  torn  down 
by  impatient  hands ;  and  limbs  had  been 
wrenched  off  the  orange-trees,  or  left  hanging 
at  forlorn  right  angles  by  strips  of  bark.  The 
house,  with  its  shattered  windows,  and  the 
weeds  growing  over  its  broad  steps,  seemed 
mutely  lamenting  over  the  desolation.  Yet  a 
wisp  of  smoke  crept  out  of  the  huge  coquina 
chimney  of  the  kitchen  —  token    that  Venus 


HALF  A   CURSE.  217 

must  still  be  living  there.  But  in  vain  Johnny 
hunted  and  shouted,  and,  at  last,  in  despair  he 
took  his  way  back  to  the  city  gates.  He  passed 
along  the  narrow  streets,  vaguely  depressed  by 
what  he  had  seen,  until  he  was  stopped  by  a 
crowd  before  the  building  which  still  bears  the 
title  of  "  The  Governor's  Palace." 

In  the  day  of  Spain  the  palace  doubtless  cut 
a  becoming  and  princely  figure,  with  its  tower 
and  balconies  and  portico,  and  the  famous  gar- 
den, wherein  was  planted  every  kind  of  tree  on 
earth  (according  to  the  old  chronicler)  ;  to-day, 
shorn  of  all  these,  it  is  a  commonplace  post- 
office,  but  when  Johnny  saw  it  a  shabby  vestige 
of  pomp  remained  in  the  crumbling  ornamenta- 
tion of  the  facade  and  the  Spanish  corridor  of 
arches  opposite  that  row  of  pride-of-India  trees, 
not  one  of  which  remains.  The  building  was 
used  as  a  court-house  by  the  United  States 
Government  during  the  war ;  and  it  was  so  used 
at  this  time.  A  crowd  of  men  overflowed  the 
corridor  into  the  street. 

The  people  were  Minorcans  for  the  most  part, 
dark,  thin,  and  dejected  looking  ;  but  there  was 
a  sprinkling  of  black  faces  and  blue  coats,  and 
a  little  bandying  of  jokes.  Johnny  asked  a 
man  what  was  going  on.  He  was  a  Minorcan ; 
he  answered,  sullenly :  "  Dey  refuge  'low  us 
pay  tax,  so  den  dey  sell  our  Ian',  now." 


278  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

''Listen,"  called  a  soldier,  nearer  the  door, 
"  there 's  a  circus  in  there.  An  old  colored 
woman  's  bidding  against  Baldy.  She  goes  him 
ten  cents  better  every  time,  and  he's  hoppin' 
mad  !     Too  bad  !     He  's  got  it." 

A  burst  of  lausjhter  rolled  out  of  the  court- 
room. 

"  What's  the  joke?  "  called  another  soldier. 

"  Auntie  wants  Uncle  Sam  to  lend  her  a  few 
hundred  to  beat  Baldy,  and  to  take  it  out  in 
jam ! " 

Johnny  wedged  himself  through  the  men  to 
where  Venus  stood,  her  gay  turban  towering 
above  all  the  heads  and  her  black  profile  cut 
against  the  yellow  stucco  pillar  like  a  bas-relief 
of  anguish. 

She  turned  a  piteous  gaze  down  to  Johnny's 
kind  eyes. 

"  You 'se  done  come  too  late,  marse  cap'n," 
she  said;  "dey  taken  Miss  Xannie's  place  'way. 
I  'se  offer  dem  all  de  money  fum  de  po'serves, 
but  dey  won'  hab  it." 

Johnny  got  her  out  of  the  court-room  into 
the  plaza  opposite,  where  he  made  her  sit  down. 

"Now  tell  me  what  this  all  means,"  said  he. 

"  Dey  done  take  hit,  sah.  Fust  dey  steal  all 
de  gyardin  truck  an'  de  chickins,  an'  dey  'tice 
'way  po'  ol'  Strawberry,  de  onlies'  cow  we  all 
hab  leff  "  — 


HALF  A    CURSE.  279 

"  Why  did  n't  you  complain?  " 

"I  done  de  bes'  I  knowed,  sah.  I  cotcli  one 
t'ief  an'  I  take  my  slipper  to  'im  de  same  like 
his  own  mudder ;  an'  den  I  tote  'im  to  de  cun- 
nel  by  de  collar.  Dey  done  punish  'im.  But 
I  cud  n't  cotch  no  mo' ;  dey  wuz  too  spry.  Den 
dey  putt  de  wah-tax  on,  an'  I  done  went  prompt 
fo'  ter  pay,  wid  de  change  e'zact  ;  but  de  boss, 
he  say  Miss  Nannie  am  a  rebil,  an'  de  loil  peo- 
ples dey  's  de  onlies'  people  kin  pay  taxes  ;  an' 
he  refuge  "  — 

"  But  he  had  n't  any  right  to  refuse  !  " 

"  Dunno.  Dat  am  w'at  he  done.  Dey  done 
Mr.  Dee  Medeecis  de  same  way;  dey  twurn  'im 
hout  on  de  pa'metto  scrub  kase  he  hab  two  sons 
wid  de  'federates,  an'  den  dey  sole  'im  up. 
Dat  t'ief,  BaFwin,  he  git  de  'ous.  'Spec'  he 
git  de  town,  d'rectly.     Well." 

Her  head  sank  hopelessly  on  her  breast  ;  but 
in  a  moment  she  looked  up  ;  she  even  made 
an  effort  at  the  conversation  which  her  notions 
of  politeness  demanded.  "  You  's  lookin'  right 
peart,  sah.  I  hopes  you  is  gittin'  on  smart. 
I  'se  made  some  dem  fig  po'serbs  an'  guavas  fo' 
ye,  sah,  an'  ef  ye  cay  n't  tote  'em  wid  ye,  whar 
will  I  sen'  dem  kase  I  won'  hab  no  mo'  — 
place." 

A  kind  of  dry  sob  shook  her  frame,  though 
it  brought  no  tears.     Her  woeful  patience  af- 


280  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

fected  Johnny  so  that  the  good  fellow  could  n't 
sleep  that  night.  He  did  what  he  could  —  pro- 
tested against  the  sale  as  illegal,  and  even  of- 
fered Baldwin  twice  his  purchase-money  for  the 
title-deeds. 

"  Ye  cayn't  buy  it  of  me,"  said  Baldwin, 
grinning  in  a  very  irritating  fashion.  Thanks 
to  Johnny,  he  was  no  longer  in  the  army,  and 
he  let  his  old  captain  understand  that  he  re- 
membered. 

"  I  'm  hanged  but  I  '11  get  the  house  in  spite 
of  you,  you  scoundrelly  cad,"  vowed  Johnny  at 
last.     At  which  Baldwin  only  grinned  again. 

For  the  present,  however,  nothing  could  be 
done.  Johnny  helped  Venus  move  Mrs.  Le- 
gare's  property  into  the  house  of  a  Minorcan, 
the  same  De'  Medici  whose  wrongs  had  been 
recited  by  Venus.  Venus  herself  worked  like 
a  horse,  and  never  spoke  a  superfluous  word. 
She  showed  a  curious  patience  over  all  the  de- 
lays and  annoyances  of  such  a  flitting ;  even 
Ambrose  did  not  get  a  hard  word.  He  lent  his 
amiable  countenance  to  the  occasion,  advising, 
directing,  criticising,  everything  but  working  ; 
and  the  next  morning  he  presented  himself  to 
John-ny  very  smartly  dressed,  with  a  traveling 
bag  in  his  hand,  like  one  ready  for  a  journey. 

"  I  'se  called,  sah,"  said  Ambrose,  in  his  soft- 
est voice,  *'  ter  'trust  ye,  sah,  wid  my  ados  ter 


HALF  A    CURSE.  281 

Venus.  I  'se  gwine  'way,  sah,  wid  Cap'n  Grace. 
Venus,  she  sut'nly  ar  comical,  an'  I  wisht,  sah, 
you  hab  de  kin'ness  ter  look  ayfter  'er  dis  yere 
mawnin' ;  she  up  yonder  ter  de  place,  an'  I  'se 
unner  de  impression,  sah,  she  aimin'  fo'  ter  chop 
Mr.  Bal'win's  head  open  wid  de  ax !  Yes'ah. 
No,  sah "  —  as  Johnny  made  an  impulsive 
movement  —  "  dar  ain't  no  call  fo'  aggitatin' 
yo'  seff ;  wait  twell  I  comes  ter  de  squeal  'er 
de  story.  I  done  seen  Venus  sharpin'  dat  ax, 
an'  I  seen  'er  guvin'  de  stockin'  —  dat  same 
stockin'  she  kep  'er  money  in,  ye  unnerstan', 
sah,  an'  nebber  so  much  's  let  'er  lawfil  husban' 
peek  enter  hit  —  she  guv  dat  stockin'  ter  Miz 
Dee  Medeecis  fo'  ter  keep  fo'  Miz  Legree.  She 
done  so  ;  I  seen  'er.  I  wuz  present,  pussonly, 
myseff,  unner  de  bed.  So,  sah,  habin'  de  bes' 
wishes  fo'  Venus,  dough  she  hab  no  right  no- 
tions 'bout  de  duties  er  de  weaker  vessel,  I  'se 
done  gone  ter  Mr.  Bal'win,  an'  he  won'  go  dar 
't  all,  but  send  de  sogers." 

"  But  she  may  resist  the  soldiers  "  — 
"  No,  sah ;  pardin',  sah ;  I  'se  guv  'em  de 
key  er  de  back  do',  an'  w'ile  Venus  she  darin' 
dem  in  front,  torrers  kin  come  in  behin'.  I 
hates  ter  argy  wid  Venus  ;  she  am  so  prege- 
deeced  like,  she  ain't  reasonable.  So  ye  be  so 
kin',  please,  sah,  gib  my  bes'  respec'  ter  Venus, 
an'   tell  'er  I  forgibs  ev'yt'ing,  an'  I  'se  done 


282  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

gone  fo'  good ;  an'  ef  we  all  don'  meet  up  en 
dis  worl',  I  hopes  ter  meet  up  with  'er  en  de 
bright  worl'  above,  whar  dey  ain't  no  merry  in' 
nur  givin'  up  merryin'  an'  de  wicked  cease  deir 
trubblin'  an'  de  weary  am  at  res'." 

Here  Ambrose  took  out  a  white  handker- 
chief, and,  so  to  speak,  dusted  his  eyes  with  it ; 
then  made  a  deep  bow  and  departed. 

"  Venus  is  well  rid  of  him,"  thought  John- 
ny ;  "  now,  how  much  of  that  was  a  lie  ?  " 

But  for  once  Ambrose  had  spoken  the  truth, 
as  Johnny  discovered  when  he  got  to  the  Legree 
gate,  for  he  could  see  blue-coats  on  the  piazzas, 
and  he  met  Venus  with  an  axe  on  her  shoulder. 
She  answered  his  questions  with  inscrutable 
composure  :  "  I  'se  gwine  speak  Mr.  Bal'win," 
said  she. 

"  Do  you  need  an  axe  for  that  ?  Venus,  I 
believe  you  mean  to  kill  Baldwin.  You  think 
then  Mrs.  Legare  will  get  the  place  back,  but 
she  won't;  it  will  go  to  Baldwin's  relations. 
You  never  will  get  it  back  that  way.  And 
they  will  hang  you,  my  poor  friend,  and  what 
will  Miss  Nannie  do  without  you  ?  " 

He  had  touched  the  right  chord.  The  axe 
trembled  on  the  huge  shoulder,  then  all  at  once 
it  was  hurled  to  the  ground,  and  Venus  was 
crouching  beside  it,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro 
in  bitter  anguish,  but  never  uttering  a  sound. 


HALF  A   CURSE.  283 

Johnny  did  not  know  how  to  interrupt  this  sav- 
age, silent  grief.  At  last  she  arose,  arranged 
her  dress  decently,  and  said  very  quietly : 
"  Marse  cap'n,  Miss  Nannie  done  los'  ev'yt'ing 
—  her  paa,  dera  two  boys,  an  Marse  Renny  he 
killed  up,  too,  las'  monf  ;  an' — an'  my  li'le  w'ite 
baby,  de  Lawd  done  take  'er  fo'  ter  be  happy 
'way  fum  we  all.  Marse  cap'n,  I  cayn't  lebe 
Miss  Nannie  by  'er  lone !  No,  I  'se  hab  ter 
stay.  Oh,  how  come  my  witch  mammy  nebber 
I'arn  me  no  witchin'  ?  All  I  knows  dess  haff 
er  cuss.  Wat  de  wuth  am  Aa^ercusa  ?  Deb- 
bil  lebe  ye  most  'tickleres'  p'int." 

"  Never  mind,  Venus,"  said  Johnny ;  "  we  '11 
get  it  without  the  devil." 

He  quite  meant  what  he  said,  and,  on  leav- 
ing Florida,  he  used  all  his  own  and  his  family's 
influence,  which  was  not  small,  in  Mrs.  Legare's 
behalf ;  but  it  was  a  time  when  both  sides  were 
stripping  themselves  of  the  superfluous  moral- 
ities for  the  last  fierce  tussle,  and  he  could  do 
nothing.  Then  he  wrote  to  Venus,  proposing 
that  she  try  to  buy  the  place  of  Baldwin.  An 
answer  came  promptly  enough,  from  Mrs.  De' 
Medici ;  Venus  had  tried,  but  Baldwin  wouldn't 
sell  the  place  for  less  than  five  thousand  dollars. 

Johnny  was  not  too  good  to  swear  a  little 
over  that  letter.  "Wait  a  little,"  said  he, 
"  we  '11  get  the  place  cheaper  than  that." 


284  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

His  interest  was  so  tlioronglily  roused  tLat  lie 
went  down  to  see  Venus  as  soon  as  the  end  of 
the  war  left  him  at  liberty.  He  found  her 
established  in  the  Minorcan's  house,  and  selling 
preserves  at  such  a  rate  that  she  had  to  hire  an 
assistant.  She  had  fitted  up  a  room  with  the 
old  furniture  of  Mrs.  Legare's  chamber,  and 
kept  it  always  ready,  down  to  the  nosegay  on 
the  table.  "  Kase  I  knows  not  de  day  nur  de 
hour,  and  I'se  keep  ready  fo'  my  Miss  Nannie." 

Baldwin  was  as  obdurate  as  ever.  This  was 
the  state  of  things  when  Miss  Nannie  came 
back.  Johnny  was  still  in  town,  but  so  changed 
was  she  that  he  did  not  know  her.  He  had 
gone  out  that  day  with  Venus  to  "the  place." 
Walking  through  the  ruined  gardens,  and 
viewing  the  deserted  and  dismantled  house,  it 
seemed  to  him  a  type  of  the  whole  South.  Per- 
haps, because  he  knew  all  the  little  domestic 
details  of  the  life  of  the  past  owners,  and 
because  he  had,  in  a  way,  entered  into  their 
joys  and  their  sorrows,  a  profound  sense  of  the 
contrast  and  the  desolation  made  Johnny  mel- 
ancholy. He  recalled  the  radiant  creature 
whom  he  had  seen,  with  a  kind  of  pang.  And  it 
was  at  this  moment  that  he  saw  a  thin,  elderly 
woman,  in  rusty  black  draperies,  come  slowly 
and  wearily  down  the  avenue.  She  was  quite 
near  him  before  he  perceived  that  really  she 


HALF  A    CURSE.  285 

was  a  young  woman,  whose  hair  had  turned 
gray.  Venus  was  just  behind  Johnny.  She 
screamed,  and  ran  towards  the  lady. 

At  the  same  time  a  man  came  around  the 
house.  The  man  was  Baldwin.  Johnny  saw 
that  the  lady  spoke  to  him.  "  Do  you  live  here, 
sir  ?  "  said  she. 

"  No,  ma'am,"  answered  Baldwin,  civilly ; 
"  but  I  own  the  place." 

"  You  —  own  —  the  —  place  ?  "  gasped  she. 
"  How  did  you  get  it  ?  " 

''  Bought  it  of  Uncle  Sam.  It  was  sold  for 
taxes." 

Then  Venus  caught  her  mistress  about  the 
waist,  and,  supporting  her  with  one  arm,  shook 
her  free  fist  in  Baldwin's  face. 

*'0h,  ye  debbil!"  she  yelled.  "  Dis  am 
Miz'  Legree ! " 

"  Hey  ?  "  said  Baldwin.  »  Well,  I  don't  guess 
ye  '11  expect  me  to  say  I  'm  pleased  to  meet  ye, 
ma'am." 

"  I  thought  I  was  coming  home,  Venus," 
said  the  poor  lady. 

Johnny  could  n't  bear  any  more. 

"  Confound  it  all,  Baldwin,"  said  he,  "  let 's 
see  if  we  can't  settle  this.  You  say  you  will 
sell  for  five  thousand  ;  I  '11  give  you  your  price." 

"No  ye  don't,  colonel,"  said  Baldwin.  *'I 
ain't  sellin',  and  what 's  more,  I  ain't  going  to 


286  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

sell.     The  land  will  rise,  and  I  kin   afford  to 
wait.     An'  if  I  was  sellin',  d — d  if  I  'd  sell  to 

"You  cur,"  said  Johnny,  "  if  you  say  another 
word  I  '11  thrash  you."  He  looked  as  though 
he  might  not  wait  for  the  other  word. 

"  An'  I  holp  him,"  said  Venus. 

"No,  Venus,"  Mrs.  Legare  cried.  "No,  sir; 
you  are  kind,  but  it  would  be  useless;  I  know 
the  man  now.  He  was  an  overseer  on  my 
uncle's  plantation,  and  was  sent  away  for  cheat- 
ing. He  went  into  the  Yankee  army  afterward 
as  a  sutler,  but  he  had  to  leave  because  he 
would  get  provisions  for  the  people  here  from 
the  commissary  and  then  sell  the  provisions." 

Baldwin  ground  his  teeth,  but  it  was  not 
easy  to  denj^  this  with  Tindall  looking  on,  so  he 
forced  a  sickly  kind  of  laugh,  saying:  "  You  're 
a  lady,  ma'am,  an'  you  kin  talk  an'  I  have  to 
listen,  if  it  is  on  my  own  grounds,  but  it 's  gittin' 
late  an'  I  have  to  be  goin'." 

Mrs.  Legare  turned  her  back  on  him,  not 
deigning  to  answer.  Venus  accompanied  her 
mistress ;  but  she  rather  marred  the  dignity  of 
their  departure  by  shaking  her  fists  at  Baldwin 
all  the  way  to  the  gate,  and  screaming  unintel- 
ligible imprecations,  backing  out,  meanwhile,  as 
if  from  a  royal  presence. 

She  informed   Johnny,   later,  that  she  had 


HALF  A   CURSE.  287 

launched  at  Baldwin  a  curse  of  terrific  power. 
"Dat  same  haff  er  cuss  my  mammy  I'arn  me," 
said  she,  '^  mek  dat  Bal'win  squeal  fo'  sho,  fotch 
de  wuss  sorter  trubbel  on  him.  Mabbe  he  git 
out  dough,  kase  dey  's  jess  de  fust  haff.  Mos' 
like  gre't  trubbel,  deff,  mabbe,  come  ter  me, 
too,  kase  er  meddlin'  wid  de  debbil's  tings. 
Dat  ar's  w'yfo'  I  done  nebber  cuss  'im  befo'. 
I  like  fo'  ter  lib  an  'see  Miss  Nannie.  Dess 
see  'er,  dat 's  a  satisfaction  ter  me." 

This  was  after  Venus  had  taken  Mrs.  Legare 
to  her  home,  and  when  she  was  bidding  good-by 
to  Johnny,  who  must  leave  the  town  that  night, 
having  received  a  telegram  from  the  North 
about  business  requiring  his  presence. 

Venus  wept  as  she  blessed  him  and  implored 
him  to  return  soon. 

•  ••••••• 

The  decrepit  old  Spanish  town  was  trans- 
formed into  a  fashionable  "  winter-resort " 
before  Johnny  saw  it  again.  He  stared  discon- 
tentedly at  the  smart  new  shops  and  the  huge 
wooden  hotels  which  had  taken  the  place  of  the 
modest  hostelries  of  his  knowledge.  "  Confound 
it,  how  they  have  spoiled  the  place !  "  thought 
Colonel  Tindall. 

Strolling  along,  he  found  himself  at  last  in 
one  of  those  lane-like  streets  which  are  inter- 
rupted by  the  plaza  for  a  space  and  then  go 


288  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

crookedly  on  until  they  melt  into  the  marshes 
beyond  the  town.  He  stopped  before  a  house, 
such  a  house  as  used  to  be  common  as  possible, 
but  which  was  already  growing  rare.  The  pink 
plaster  hiding  the  coquina  front  was  richly 
mottled  by  lichens,  chipped  away,  also,  in 
places,  showing  the  stone.  It  rose  in  a  straight 
line  from  the  sand  (sidewalk  the  street  had 
none),  and  was  continued  in  a  garden  wall. 
The  steep  roof  made  an  upward  and  forward 
slant  over  a  hanging  balcony,  and  some  queer 
little  dormer  windows  blinked  out  above.  The 
door  to  the  house  was  the  garden  gate.  Over 
the  brass  knocker  hung  a  sign  —  "  Furnished 
Rooms." 

"  Now,  this  is  a  decent  house,"  said  Johnny. 
"  By  Jove  !  " 

The  exclamation  was  caused  by  the  appear- 
ance of  a  gigantic  negress  on  the  balcony.  She 
looked  down,  saw,  clapped  her  hands  together, 
and  disappeared.  In  an  incredibly  short  time 
she  was  below,  kneeling  before  Johnny  the  bet- 
ter to  embrace  him,  and  blessing  the  Lord. 

"  De  chari'ts  er  Isril  an'  de  hossmen  darof," 
shouted  Venus,  swaying  Johnny  backward  and 
forward ;  "  de  rose  er  Sharon  an'  de  lily  er  de 
valle}^  praise  de  Lawd,  O  my  soul,  dis  am  you 
fo'  sho',  honey  !  De  lamb,  wid  him  same  yaller 
ha'r,  an'  lubly  red  cheeks  de  ve'y  same  —  dess 


HALF  A    CURSE.  289 

fatter !  Hallelooger  !  laws,  laws  —  kin  ye  hole 
yo'seff  stiddy,  marse  cuniiel,  dess  a  minit  twell 
I  res'  my  ban'  on  yo'  sboul'er  'n  h'ist  myseff 
hup  —  I  ain't  de  figger  fo'  knellin',  dat 's  sho'." 

Of  course  Venus  would  have  him  go  into  the 
house  to  Mrs.  Legare,  who  received  him  with,  a 
cordiality  amazing  to  the  modest  fellow. 

'^  Laws,  my  baby,"  said  Venus,  "  ye  ain't 
s'pose  Miss  Nannie  Legree  an'  me  done  forgit 
ye  ?  We  all  'members  ye  reg'lar  en  our  ev'nin' 
supperclations,  we  does.  An'  dat  ar  check  er 
ye  done  sen'  me,  I  'se  got  it  safe  en  de  stockin'. 
Miss  Nannie,  she  guv  de  stockin'  ter  de  bank 
fo'  ter  keep  in  deir  big  iron  box  "  — 

"  But  the  check  was  for  your  law-suit  —  to 
get  back  your  property,"  said  Johnny.  He  sat 
blushing  in  the  most  extraordinary  way,  and 
thinking  Mrs.  Legare  handsomer  every  minute. 
Gray  hair  ?  —  well,  what  could  suit  those  divine 
dark  eyes  better  ?  Thin  ?  —  yes,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  the  stouter  Johnny  grew  in  his  own  person, 
the  slimmer  became  his  ideal  woman's  shape. 

Meanwhile,  Venus  answered  in  the  fullness 
of  her  heart:  "De  'serbs,  dey  pays  fo'  de  la  win'. 
An'  we  rents  rooms  ;  sleeps  'em,  don'  eat  'em ; 
an'  we  alls  roomers  don'  make  a  mite  er  trub- 
bel.  An,  de  lawin'  ar  gwine  on  prosperin' 
an'  ter  prosper ;  be'n  frow  two  co'ts  a'reddy. 
We  alls  lawyer,  he  says  ef  we  kin  dess  git 


290  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN 

de  'session  we'se  git  de  propputty.  Dey  's 
a  right  smart  er  folkses  lawed  bout  deir  prop- 
putty,  an'  some  dey 's  comperromised,  but  dat 
BalVin  lie  won'  gib  in  —  I  lay  de  debbil  holp 
him"  — 

"  How  about  the  curse,  Venus  ?  "  Johnny 
could  not  resist  asking. 

He  got  a  portentous  roll  of  head  and  eyes  to- 
gether, and  "  Nebber  you  min'  de  cuss,"  said 
Venus ;  "  hit  come.  Ain't  he  done  los'  de  on- 
lies'  chile  he  hab  ?  An'  I  know  dis,  he  don' 
durst  lib  in  dat  ar  house  hisseff ;  lets  it  ter  a 
po'  cracker  man  fo'  mos'  nuffin',  he  so  skeered." 
Johnny  soon  found  from  Mrs.  Legare  that 
Venus  was  not  misinformed  as  to  the  value  of 
the  possession  of  the  property  in  a  legal  sense. 

"Venus,"  said  Johnny,  "I  think  I  see  my 
way  ;  I  '11  manage  the  cracker." 

"  Yes,  marse  cunnel,"  said  Venus,  in  nowise 
surprised,  "  an'  dis  time,  I  lay  de  debbil  holp 
ws." 

Johnny  and  Venus  had  resumed  their  confi- 
dential relations  at  once.  He  had  explained 
that  his  long  absence  was  caused  by  his  being 
in  Europe.  "  Wid  yo'  wife,  honey  ?  "  said  Ve- 
nus, rather  anxiously. 

"I  am  not  so  fortunate  as  to  be  married, 
Venus." 

"  I  'lows  't  war  de  ladv  dat  am  forternate," 


o 


HALF  A    CURSE.  291 

said  Venus,  simply.  "  Den  you  ain't  merriad, 
an'  Miss  Nannie  Legree  am  a  widder?  Singler  ! 
Singler !  But  ain't  she  dat  sweet,  marse  cun- 
nel?" 

"  She  certainly  is,  Venus,"  said  Johnny,  with 
rather  a  doleful  smile,  for  he  had  begun  to  think 
that  he  was  likely  to  exchange  a  few  delicious 
days  for  a  long  heartache.  "  However,  I  '11  get 
her  place  back,"  thought  he,  "  then  I  can  go." 

The  cracker  was  induced  to  move  out  by 
night,  —  how,  Johnny  best  knew,  —  and  that 
same  night  Venus  and  Johnny  moved  Mrs. 
Legare's  furniture  back  into  the  house.  They 
had  unloaded  the  last  cartload,  and  were  stand- 
ing in  the  hall,  and  Venus  had  chuckled  to  her- 
self, "  Got  de  debbil  on  we  alls  side  dis  time," 
when  they  both  heard  the  same  noise  —  the 
rapid  thud  of  hoofs,  as  if  a  furious  rider  were 
galloping  down  the  avenue. 

Somehow,  Baldwin  had  discovered  the  plot. 
"  Let  him  come,"  said  Venus,  grimly,  flinging 
the  door  open  wide,  "  me  an'  de  debbil  kin 
match  him  !  "  Baldwin  jumped  off  his  horse 
and  rushed  at  her.  She  had  a  candle  in  her 
hand,  and  by  its  flare  her  vast  bulk  loomed  up 
like  a  black  mountain.  With  one  arm  she 
caught  the  raging  man  by  the  shoulder  and 
held  him  writhing  and  sputtering  with  fury, 
but  helpless  as  a  kitten  in  her  grasp,  while  with 


292  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

the  other  she  slowly  and  impressively  wagged 
the  candle  at  him  in  the  manner  of  a  finger, 
saying:  "I  'clar'  I'se  'sprised  at  ye,  boss,  mos' 
knockin'  me  down  dat  a  way ;  clean  ondecent ! " 

"  You  git  outer  my  house !  "  roared  Baldwin. 

"  Dis  yere  am  Miss  Nannie  Legree's  house," 
said  Venus  ;  "  it  ain't  yo'  house  nebber  no  mo'. 
We  alls  got  de  'session,  and  I  'se  tell  ye  plain, 
boss,  ef  ye'se  gwine  on  dis  a  way,  'sturbin'  de 
quality  an'  tryin'  ter  faze  'em,  I  'se  trow  ye 
down,  right  yere,  an'  sot  on  ye  twell  ye  ca'm 
an'  peacerful  an'  readdy  go  home.  Fo'  de 
Lawd,  I  will  so.     Ye  heah  me  !  " 

Baldwin  blustered  something  about  wanting 
to  talk  to  a  man. 

"  Try  TTze,"  said  Johnny. 

"I'll  fix  you  to-morrer,"  snarled  Baldwin. 
"  If  there  's  a  law  in  the  land  I  '11  have  it, 
and  "  — 

But  the  rest  of  his  threats  were  lost,  for  he 
turned  on  his  heel,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
off,  swearing. 

"Bress  de  good  debbil,  fo'  so  much!"  said 
Venus. 

All  the  next  day  they  expected  him  —  an 
anxious  day  it  was  ;  but  he  did  not  come,  nor 
did  he  come  the  day  after,  and  so  a  week  went 
by  without  any  sign  from  him,  until  it  was  ru- 
mored about  the  town  that  he  had  fallen  ill. 


HALF  A    CURSE.  293 

Then  they  said  that  his  wife  and  a  servant  had 
taken  the  disease.  Finally  the  oldest  doctor  in 
town  reined  in  his  horse  to  say  a  few  low  spoken 
words  to  Mrs.  Legare  on  the  street.  The  horse 
was  jaded  and  the  doctor  pale ;  he  had  been 
riding  in  different  directions,  but  all  his  patients 
had  the  same  disease,  and  all  had  been  with 
Baldwin. 

"  He  went  to  Savannah  and  brought  it  back 
with  him,"  said  the  doctor.  "  When  he  knew 
he  had  it,  he  let  people  come  to  see  him.  Yes, 
ma'am.  He  has  always  been  a  curse  to  this 
town,  but  this  is  the  worst  of  all,  for  it 's  yellow 
fever  sure  as  death." 

Mrs.  Legare  went  home  and  warned  her 
boarders.  There  were  only  three  of  them,  the 
time  being  early  in  November.  Two  of  them 
left  the  town  that  day.  The  third  was  Johnny 
Tindall.  He  flatly  refused  to  stir  unless  he 
might  take  Mrs.  Legare  and  Venus  with  him. 

"  But  /  have  had  the  fever  ;  there  is  no  dan- 
ger for  me,"  pleaded  Mrs.  Legare,  ''  and  the 
negroes  don't  take  it.  Besides,  I  am  a  South- 
erner, these  are  my  people,  my  place  is  here. 
But  you,  sir,  why  should  you  risk  your  life  ?  " 

Johnny  looked  at  her,  a  longing  that  shook 
his  heart  rising  in  him,  to  tell  her  that  it  was 
because  it  would  be  sweeter  to  die  with  her, 
beside  her,  for  her,  as  it  were,  than  to  live  apart 


294  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

from  her.  But  he  only  said  :  "  Well,  it  would 
be  rather  a  scrubby  thing  to  run  off  and  leave 
you,  don't  you  think  ?  " 

He  was  the  stronger  —  he  stayed. 

The  fever  grew  worse  and  worse.  People 
shut  themselves  in  their  houses,  so  that  it  be- 
came hard  to  get  nurses  for  the  sick.  It  was 
such  a  new  calamity  that  the  townspeople  were 
stunned.  "  There  never  was  a  case  of  yellow 
fever  in  the  town  before,"  they  would  repeat  pit- 
eously,  as  though  there  were  some  hope  in  their 
past  immunity.  Then  they  cursed  the  man  who 
had  brought  this  horrible  mischief  upon  them. 
No  soul  would  go  near  him,  and  the  house  where 
he  and  his  wife  lay  sick  was  shunned  like  one 
haunted. 

"  Let  them  live  or  die  as  the  devil  pleased," 
the  people  said.  So  the  weeds  choked  the  gar- 
den, and  the  wind  rattled  the  blinds,  and  the 
rain  poured  in  through  an  open  window,  while 
the  few  passers-by  only  crossed  themselves  and 
hurried  on. 

"  Hit  am  de  cuss,"  said  Venus,  with  solem- 
nity, not  without  a  touch  of  gloom}^  pride,  "  de 
cuss  dat  I  cussed  ?  " 

One  day,  a  lady,  passing  on  the  other  side  of 
the  street,  observed  a  little  girl  mount  the  steps, 
and  called  to  her,  "  Don't  go  in  there,  dearie  ; 
they  have  the  fever  ?  " 


o 


HALF  A    CURSE.  295 

"Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  must !"  answered  the 
child,  lookuig  back  brightly.  "I  take  care  of 
them  ;  I  'm  their  little  girl !  They  're  awful 
sick."  Before  the  lady  could  cross  the  street 
she  had  entered  the  house. 

"  Oh,  the  poor  little  thing,"  thought  Mrs. 
Legare.  "  Who  can  she  be  ?  They  have  no 
children.     And  oh,  how  like  she  is  to  Tessie!  " 

She  told  Venus  about  the  incident.  ''  'Clar' 
dat  ar  muss  er  be'n  dat  li'le  gyurl  dey  done 
'dopt,"  said  Venus,  "  an'  dey  does  say  dat  debbil 
am  right  petted  on  her.  Dar  now,  Miss  Nan- 
nie, you  lay  down  an'  res'  or  I'se  tell  Marse 
Tindall." 

Already  Johnny  had  come  to  play  an  impor- 
tant part  in  Mrs.  Legare's  thoughts.  In  those 
days  of  selfish  fear  and  frantic  misery  brave 
souls  were  drawn  together.  She  admired 
Johnny's  clear  head  and  his  military  cheerful- 
ness, so  independent  of  outside  gloom.  She 
would  not  let  him  assist  her  directly  in  nursing; 
but  he  was  invaluable  outside,  the  right  hand 
of  the  mayor,  the  commandant  of  the  post,  and 
the  doctors.  Yet  she  was  conscious,  all  the 
time,  of  a  vigilant  watch  over  her  health  and 
comfort,  and  of  a  hundred  unobtrusive  atten- 
tions. "  Nobody  but  Venus  could  take  such 
good  care  of  me  as  you  do,"  she  said  once, 
gratefully. 


296  KNITTERS  IN  TEE  SUN. 

Venus,  of  course,  was  a  tower  of  strength. 

"  Laws,"  said  she,  *'  I  wisht  I  cud  mek  my- 
seff  inter  ten  folks,  den  I  mought  go  'roun' ! 
Say,  dough.  Miss  Nannie,  dar  am  one  pow'full 
comfort  er  dis  yere  hour  er  'fliction  —  dat  ar 
ole  Bal'win  ain't  gwine  to  bodder  we  all  no 
mo',  kase  his  gwine  die,  sho'.  Miz'  Dee  Med- 
eecis,  she  say  she  go  by  'is  'ouse  dis  mawnin', 
an'  she  heah  dat  ar'  li'le  gyurl,  po'  ting !  moan- 
in',  an'  moanin'  rale  pittible,  an'  dey  wuz  clean 
deserted,  an'  dat  debbil  he  come  to  der  winder, 
an'  he  wuz  lookin'  like  deff,  an'  he  h'ist  down 
a  tin  pail,  tied  on  a  sheet  tored  in  two,  an'  he 
done  holler  on  Miz'  Dee  Medeecis,  how  he'd  gin 
'er  ten  doUa'  fo'  ter  fotch  'im  a  pail  er  watter 
fo'  ter  guv  dat  ar  baby.  '  I  know  ye  hates  me,' 
sezee,  '  but  de  chile  nebber  hurted  ye.'  So 
Miz'  Dee  Medeecis  she  got  'im  de  watter,  an' 
she  'lows  by  dis  time  dey  's  all  drinked  deyseff 
ter  deff,  mos'  like  —  laws,  honey,  whar  ye 
gwine  ?  " 

Mrs.  Legare  did  not  look  at  the  negress  as 
she  replied  that  she  was  going  to  the  Bald- 
wins. 

"  Oh,  my  heavenly  Marster,"  screamed  Ve- 
nus, "de  chile  am  gone  clean  'stracted  crazy. 
Dar,  honey,  you  sot  right  down  an'  leff  dat  ar 
old  debbil  die  comf'uble ;  he 's  got  all  dat  ar 
watter ! " 


HALF  A    CURSE.  297 

"  Venus,"  said  Mrs.  Legare,  "  I  must  go.  I 
have  been  thinking  of  it  for  two  days.  I  said 
if  the  child  got  sick —  Oh,  Venus,  the  poor 
little  child,  the  baby  that  looks  like  Tessie !  " 

"  Well  den,"  said  Venus,  sullenly,  "  if  dat 
chile  hab  be  sabe  kase  she  favor  Miss  Tessie, 
den  I  'se  de  one  ter  do  it,  an'  I  does  it.  I  goes 
an'  nusses  de  w'ole  batch  er  dem.  I  knowed 
dat  debbil  git  eben  wid  me,  foolin'  wid  he 
cusses ! " 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  in  spite  of 
Mrs.  Legare's  expostulations  went  to  Baldwin's 
within  the  hour. 

She  faithfully  nursed  them  until  the  fever 
turned  and  the  new  nurse  secured  by  Johnny 
arrived.  Then  she  went  home.  It  is  doubt- 
ful if,  in  their  weakness  and  delirium,  they 
quite  realized  why  she  was  there. 

The  night  of  her  return  was  rainy,  and  when 
Johnny  looked  in  on  Mrs.  Legare,  the  next 
morning,  he  found  Venus  wrapped  in  shawls 
over  the  fire  and  Mrs.  Legare  busy  with  med- 
icines. 

*'  She  ought  not  to  have  come  out  in  the  rain 
last  night,"  said  Mrs.  Legare;  "she  was  tired 
and  heated,  and  she  has  caught  cold." 

"  Laws,  Miss  Nannie,"  said  Venus,  feebly, 
*'  I  cud  n't  holp  comin',  I  wuz  dat  'omesick. 
I'se  cl'ar  sides  myseff  wid  j'y,  gittin'  back  ter 


298  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

my  own  fambly  ag'in.     An'  dis  yere  cole  am 
dess  de  spite  er  de  debbil,  nuffin  else  on  earth." 

Just  a  week  from  that  day,  John  Tindall, 
sitting  with  his  bowed  head  on  his  hands, 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  fragrance  of  roses  all 
about  him,  heard  the  knocker  on  the  front 
door  clank  and  clank. 

The  man  outside  was  Baldwin.  Mrs.  Legare 
opened  the  door.  She  was  looking  worn  and 
pale,  her  eyelids  were  swollen  with  weeping, 
and  her  eyes  had  the  glaze  of  recent  tears,  but 
they  blazed  into  their  old  brilliancy  at  the 
sight  of  him  and  his  words.  *'  You  see  I  've 
come,  ma'am,  like  I  said.  Now,  I  want  to 
know  how  soon  you  '11  be  ready  to  move  out ! " 

He  was  prepared  for  everything  except  the 
one  thing  that  happened.  She  drew  aside  her 
skirts ;  she  said,  "  Come  in  ! " 

"  Well !  "  said  Baldwin  ;  but  he  came  in, 
stumbling  a  little  because  of  his  weakness  and 
the  dark  hall,  and  she,  leading,  opened  the  par- 
lor door. 

Tindall  had  jumped  up,  and  Baldwin  saw 
him  standing  behind  some  large  dark  object. 
Looking  more  closely,  he  perceived  the  object 
to  be  a  coffin,  and  within  the  coffin,  above  the 
flowers  and  the  soft  wool  draperies,  was  the 
peaceful  mask  which  had  been  Venus's  face. 


HALF  A   CURSE.  299 

Mrs.  Legare  laid  her  hand  on  the  folded 
hands  which  would  never  work  for  her  again. 

"  There,"  she  said,  very  quietly,  *'  there  is 
my  last  friend.  She  lies  there  because  she 
went  to  help  you.  She  came  home  from  your 
house  and  died.  Now,  if  you  will,  turn  me 
—  and  her  out  of  our  home  !  " 

Baldwin's  hat  was  still  on  his  head,  he  took 
it  off ;  his  face  was  changed,  and  he  leaned 
against  the  wall. 

"Damn.it  all,"  said  he,  hoarsely,  "I  ain't 
goin'  to  turn  ye  out.  She  came  and  nursed  us, 
true  enough.  I  know  now.  Look  a  here,  she's 
always  be'n  tryin'  to  buy  it  —  I  give  her  the 
house." 

He  stumbled  back  through  the  hall.  They 
heard  the  door  swing  —  not  loudly. 

Johnny  came  and  stood  by  Mrs.  Legare. 

"  Dear,"  he  said,  "  don't  say  your  last  friend, 
because  that  can't  be  while  I  am  alive.  I  want 
to  tell  you  what  Venus  said  to  me  just  before 
she  died.  You  know,  dear  soul,  she  believed 
she  was  dying  on  account  of  that  foolish  curse. 
'  The  devil  will  kill  me,'  she  said  ;  '  but  I  don't 
care,  I  got  the  house  for  Miss  Nannie.  I  give 
it  to  her  and  you.  Keep  it  for  her,  won't  you, 
Marse  Tindall,  for  you  love  her  too  ? '  Truly, 
she  has  given  you  the  house  now,  and  if  —  the 


300  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

other  —  Oh,  my  darling,  I  love  you  with  all 
my  heart ;  don't  send  me  away  !  " 

She  was  crying  bitterly ;  but  when  he  took 
her  hand  she  did  not  repulse  him. 

"  It  is  Venus  gives  it  to  me,"  he  said. 


WHITSUN   HARP,    REGULATOR. 

PAET    I. 

Polly  Ann  Shinault  was  mending  the 
Clover  Bend  ferry-boat.  The  ferry-boat  was 
nothing  more  than  an  old  scow,  leaky  and  un- 
ruly. Lum,  Polly  Ann's  husband,  meant  to 
mend  it  that  morning  ;  but  Lum  was  scouring 
the  bottom  after  a  stray  mule.  So  Polly  Ann 
had  pounded  the  head  of  the  hatchet  on  the 
handle  —  they  have  a  natural  tendency  to  part 
and  go  their  separate  ways  in  a  Southern  yard 
—  and  was  patching  the  leaks  herself.  They 
said  at  the  Bend  that  Polly  Ann  was  "pow'ful 
handy."  She  was  a  handsome  young  woman. 
Some  blending  of  French  and  Spanish  blood 
from  the  earliest  Arkansas  travelers  had  given 
her  the  mass  of  purple-black  hair  under  her 
man's  hat,  the  clear  olive  of  her  skin,  her  velvet 
black  eyes,  and  delicate  profile.  Her  eyelashes 
were  long  and  thick  and  curled  at  the  ends. 
Long  eyelashes  and  small  features  are  not  un- 
common in  Arkansas  faces.  Did  Polly  Ann 
smile,  she  showed  a  rarer  beauty,  even  little 


302  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

teeth,  white  as  milk.  But  Polly  Ann  seldom 
smiled,  being  a  silent,  serious  creature  whose 
own  husband  felt  a  trifle  in  awe  of  her.  Her 
primitive  repairs  completed,  she  straightened 
her  bent  shoulders,  clasped  her  hands  behind 
her  neck,  and  looked  about  her.  When  she 
stood  she  was  tall  and  erect  as  a  young  cypress. 
Her  eyes  spanned  the  Black  River  flowing 
at  her  feet,  and  took  in,  without  noting,  the 
whitewashed  walls  of  the  mill,  the  store,  and 
the  score  or  two  of  houses  that  go  with  an  Ar- 
kansas cotton  plantation.  The  time  was  early 
in  November.  The  cotton  was  ready  for  pick- 
ing, and  flakes  of  white  spattered  the  brown 
fields.  The  yards  were  frowsy  with  stalks  of 
jimson  weed  and  withered  grass.  The  great 
cypress  forest  shut  in  the  cleared  space  like  a 
wall.  The  scene  was  monotonous,  yet  about  it 
was  something  sombre  and  vast,  a  loneliness 
that  the  presence  of  the  few  low-browed  houses 
seemed  to  mark  rather  than  lessen.  A  little 
spiral  of  smoke  drifting  above  a  chimney  here 
and  there,  some  pigs  dotting  the  sandy  road,  a 
few  riderless  horses  patiently  drooping  their 
noses  against  the  fence  rail  before  the  store, 
were  the  only  signs  of  habitation.  Behind 
Polly  Ann  lay  the  canebrake  and  the  forest. 
The  water  mirrored  the  Shinault  cabin  with 
its  one  wee  window  and  "stick  and  dirt "  chim- 
ney. 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         303 

During  the  war  (not  so  far  back  by  many- 
years,  that  November  day,  as  now)  escaped 
prisoners  used  to  hide  in  the  canebrake.  After 
the  war  runaway  convicts  from  the  stockade  at 
Powhatan  found  shelter  there  sometimes,  and 
then  the  cane  would  be  crushed  by  the  leaps  of 
panting  hounds;  and  many  a  night  had  Polly 
Ann  shuddered,  listening  to  the  dogs  baying, 
and  picturing  the  wretch  crouched  among  the 
sodden  grasses. 

Plenty  of  grim  traditions  hung,  heavy  as  its 
own  miasma,  over  the  cypress  swamp.  Not  a 
rod  away  was  the  bare  spot,  dented  by  cypress 
trees,  where  Old  Man  Bryce's  cabin  stood  un- 
til the  guerillas  murdered  him  and  his  wife  and 
burned  their  bones  under  their  home.  A  whole 
company  of  guerillas  had  dangled  from  the  syc- 
amore limbs  for  that  murder.  The  shapeless 
green  in  front  of  the  store  had  been  the  scene 
of  bloody  quarrels.  Down  by  the  river  bank, 
on  the  little  knoll  which  the  spring  covered 
with  wild  flowers,  Bud  Boas  had  killed  his  part- 
ner. Boas  was  tried  and  acquitted  ;  but  his 
own  conscience  was  not  so  lenient  as  men.  As 
the  slain  man  fell  he  had  flung  out  his  hand, 
touching  Boas's  cheek.  Ever  since,  the  unhappy 
slayer  had  been  haunted  by  a  touch.  He  would 
wake  from  sleep,  screaming  that  he  felt  the 
hand.    At  his  work,  at  home,  at  camp-meetings 


304  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

even,  where  tie  would  go  in  the  vain  hope  of 
eluding  his  persecutor,  the  tortured  man  might 
spring  up,  wildly  rubbing  his  face,  and  rush 
away,  or  fall  in  convulsions  horrible  to  see. 
From  no  other  cause  than  this  ghostly  touch,  he 
had  seasons  of  drinking  hard,  but  it  was  said 
that  liquor  could  not  blunt  his  senses. 

Boas's  cabin  was  near  the  Shinaults' ;  and 
this  afternoon  while  Polly  Ann  stood  looking, 
she  saw  his  limp  figure  in  butternut  jeans  slip 
through  the  store  doorway  and  creep  along  the 
bank.  Years  ago  Boas  had  been  an  exception- 
ally tall  and  strong  man,  bringing  a  backwoods- 
man's stature,  muscle,  and  ruddy  tan  from  the 
Tennessee  mountains ;  now  his  stooping  shoul- 
ders and  lank  chest  matched  the  sickly  pallor 
of  his  face,  with  its  hollow  cheeks  and  restless, 
faded  eyes. 

Approaching  the  shore,  he  hailed  Polly  Ann 
with  a  "  Whoo — op  !  "  She  got  into  the  scow 
and  pushed  off.  She  paddled  as  easily  as  an 
Indian.  Meanwhile  Boas  had  been  joined  by 
another  man,  who  drew  the  boat  up  on  the 
beach,  saying,  "  How  's  all,  Polly  Ann  ?  " 

Polly  Ann  had  not  seen  him  until  he  spoke  ; 
and  she  flushed  a  little,  as  though  from  surprise. 

"  You  come  back,  Whitsun  Harp?"  said  she. 

"  Got  back  yistiddy,"  the  man  replied.  He 
had  a  slow  full  voice,  with  a   kind  of  severe 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         305 

melody  in  its  cadence  not  in  the  least  like  the 
high-pitched  Arkansas  drawl.  Whitsun  Harp 
was  a  head  shorter  than  Boas.  He  wore  a  blue 
flannel  shirt,  and  brown  jean  trousers  tucked 
into  high  boots,  all  quite  whole  and  clean.  His 
compact,  powerful  frame  was  not  of  the  Arkan- 
sas type  any  more  than  his  dark,  square,  reso- 
lute face ;  yet,  in  the  phrase  of  the  region,  he 
had  been  "  born  and  raised  on  the  Black  River 
bottom." 

At  first  glance,  one  could  see  a  resemblance 
between  him  and  the  young  woman,  —  not  a 
likeness  of  feature,  but  of  manner  and  expres- 
sion ;  both  had  the  same  direct,  serious  gaze, 
the  same  slow  speech,  and  the  same  proud  bear- 
ing. When  Polly  Ann  reddened,  Harp  grew 
paler.  The  men  stepped  into  the  boat,  and 
Polly  Ann  greeted  Boas:  "Howdy,  Mr.  Boas?" 

"  My  health 's  mighty  triflin',"  answered 
Boas ;  "  someway,  I  'm  puny  all  the  time ; 
sorter  mis'ry  in  my  ches' ;  some  days  I  feel 
pow'ful  weak,  caynt  skeercely  walk.  Ora  she 
'lows  she  '11  send  fer  Dr.  Vinson,  but  I  don't 
guess  it's  no  use." 

"  Doctors  does  good  sometimes,"  said  Polly 
Ann. 

"  Say,  Polly  Ann,"  said  Harp,  "  I  heerd  tell 
you  all  'd  los'  a  mewl." 

"  Lum  's  went   ayfter  it,"  said   Polly  Ann  ; 


306  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  we  missed  it  Monday,  an'  we  waited  an' 
waited  fer  it  to  come  back,  an'  it  did  n't,  so 
Lum  he  's  went  ayfter  it.  Lum  'lows  it 's  stole, 
he  'lows  some  cotton-picker  toled  it  off." 

''  Looks  like,"  assented  Boas ;  "  them  cotton- 
pickers  is  mighty  ornery  folks." 

Harp  asked  a  few  questions,  short  and  to  the 
point;  and  when  the  boat  landed  he  drew  Polly 
Ann  aside,  while  Boas  stooped  to  mend  a  dilapi- 
dated shoe  with  a  rag. 

"  Polly  Ann,"  said  Harp,  "  I  come  to  see  ye. 
I  '11  tend  to  yo'  mewl.  Ye  know  I  ar'  turned 
regerlater." 

"  I  've  heerd  tell  on  't." 

"  Wa'al,  hit 's  so.  I  aim  to  mek  these  yere 
pyarts  mo'  decenter.  Polly  Ann,  this  yere  's  a 
turrible  mean  kentry,  drinkin'  an'  sw'arin'  an' 
fightin'  an'  devilment  er  all  kin's  o'  goin'  on  ! 
An'  the  chil'en  bein'  raised  to  drink  an'  fight 
an'  die  jes  like  we  uns ;  Polly  Ann,  hit  ain't 
right!  An'  thar  ain't  no  need  fer  it  to  be, 
neether.  I  be'n  in  other  settlements.  They 
ain't  like  we  all ;  they  've  got  brick  chimbleys, 
an'  battened  heouses,  an'  a  school-heouse  whar 
they  kin  hev  preachin',  stiddier  hevin'  it  in  a 
loft  like  we  all.  We  mought,  too,  but  we  're  so 
triflin'  we  caynt  mek  a  riffle." 

"  Looks  like,"  agreed  Polly  Ann  politely. 

"  Yit  how  to  holp  it  ?     I  'd  lay  an'  study  the 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         307 

hull  night  through,  Polly  Ann,  studin'  'beout 
hit.  The  mo'  I  studied  the  wuss  it  looked. 
Wa'al  —  it  war  ayf ter  ye  taken  up  with  Lum 
an'  war  merried,  hit  come  preachin'  Sunday, 
an'  I  went  ter  preachin'.  'T  war  the  best  out 
at  preachin'  I  ever  heerd.  All  'beout  calls. 
God  called  some  on  us  one  way  an'  some  a 
tother,  but  we  wuz  all  called  ter  his  sarvice. 
An'  I  says  ter  myself,  '  Lord,  how  ar'  I  called  ? 
I  ar'  the  bes'  blacksmith  in  the  bottom,  but  I 
cayn't  talk  wuth  a  shuck.'  An',  Polly  Ann,  a 
voice  said  back,  cl'ar  's  a  boat- whistle  :  '  Whit- 
sun  Harp,  ye  caynt  talk  folks  decent,  but  ye 
kin  lick  'em  decent.  They  need  a  regerlater 
yere  mo'n  a  preacher.'  I  jes  growed  cole  all 
over,  fur  I  war  walkin'  all  by  my  lone  self  en 
the  bottom,  not  a  critter  'reoun'  'cept  hoegs. 
'Lord,'  says  I  ter  the  sky,  'they'll  kill  me 
shore,  if  I  turn  regerlater  an'  lick  'em.  An' 
w'at  '11  maw  do  then  ? '  So  I  went  home  tur- 
rible  troubled  in  my  mind.  Polly  Ann,  w'en  I 
got  home  maw  was  in  one  'er  spells,  an'  afore 
sundown  she  war  dead.  Thet  war  the  Lord 
A'mighty's  answer  to  my  hesitatin'.  Ayfter 
thet  I  went  ter  wuk.  Fust  I  sarved  notice 
on  them  men  thet  got  drunk  reg'lar  Saturday 
nights  at  the  store.  Then  I  licked  them  thet 
persisted  in  wrong-doin'.  I  licked  ole  Skirey 
fer  oppressin'  the  pore ;  an'  I  evened  it  up  by 


808  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN 

lickin'  two  niggers  tliet  wild  n't  do  a  fair  day's 
wuk  fer  their  wages.  I  licked  Sol  Looney  fer 
fightin'  with  his  wife,  an'  I  licked  a  man  right 
smart  fer  stealin'  —  thet  ar  's  'beout  all." 

"Law  me,"  said  Polly  Ann,  admiring  him, 
"but,  Whitsun,  don'  they  fight  ye?  Folks 
don'  like  ter  be  licked." 

"  They  've  got  to  fight  or  be  licked  —  one. 
Mos'  times  I  ar'  too  spry  fer  'em  an'  take  their 
knives  an  pistils  'way.  They  did  shoot  a  shoot 
at  me  wunst,  but  hit  missed." 

Polly  Ann's  dark  eyes  were  shining  through 
a  mist  of  eagerness,  and  her  lip  quivered  as  she 
said :  "  But  they  mought  hit  ye  ! " 

"Yes,"  said  Harp  quietly,  while  something 
gentle  and  unusual  relaxed  his  features,  a  look 
at  once  patient  and  sad  ;  "  wa'al,  ef  they  did  n't 
kill  me,  I  wud  go  on  jes'  the  same,  an'  ef  hit 
did —  I  ain't  no  wife  nur  babies  ter  grieve 
ay f ter  me,  an'  I  reckon  the  Lord  kin  tek  keer 
Clover  Bend  some  other  way." 

Polly  Ann  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Looks 
like  't  wuz  a  call ! "  said  she. 

"'Tis  a  call,  shore,"  said  Harp  solemnly  ; 
"  I  waynted  ter  tell  ye  so 's  ye  wud  know  the 
truth  'beout  it,  folks  lyin'  so  ginerally.  It 's  no 
differ  ter  me  'beout  the  res',  but  I  waynted  you 
ter  know  bekase  —  we  uns  played  tergether 
w'en  we  wuz  little  tricks,  an'  I  alius  tole  ye 
everythin',  ye  rememberJ' 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         309 

She  remembered.  Perhaps  she  remembered 
more,  for  her  cheeks  grew  red,  and  her  brown 
fingers  were  clasped  together  so  tightly  that 
they  made  dents  in  the  knuckles. 

"  An',"  continued  Harp  very  gently,  "  ef  I 
shud  hev  ter  do  suthin'  thet  ye  moughtn't  like, 
hit 's  'kase  I  hev  ter  an'  not  my  seekin'  —  bein' 
called.     Ye  '11  consider  thet  thar,  Polly  Ann  ?  " 

"  I  don't  guess  ye  '11  ever  do  nuthin'  ye  don' 
hole  ter  be  right,  Whitsun  Harp." 

"  Thankee,  Polly  Ann,"  said  Harp.  He  al- 
most timidly  touched  her  hand,  holding  it  for 
a  second  in  a  loose  clasp.  Then  he  strode  away 
without  a  glance  at  Boas.  The  latter  rose  di- 
rectly and  joined  Polly  Ann. 

"  Did  Whitsun  Harp  say  onythin'  'beout  Lum 
ter  ye  ?  "  said  Boas. 

"  Naw,"  said  Polly  Ann ;  "  w'at  fer  shud 
he?" 

Boas  seemed  to  have  a  difEculty  in  speaking ; 
he  had  to  clear  his  throat  twice  before  he  could 
say :  "  Wa'al,  fact  is,  Polly  Ann,  he  's  heerd  tell 
—  wa'al,  lies  'beout  Lum  like  he  be'n  too  much 
ter  the  store  an'  dances  an'  sich  like  tricks, 
an'  Whitsun  he  'lows  Lum 's  triflin'  an'  —  he  's 
warned  him." 

"  Warned  —  Lum  ?  "  cried  Polly  Ann. 

"  Said  like  he  'd  lick  'im,  ef  he  don'  quit,"  re- 
plied Boas  with  primitive  directness.     He  laid 


310  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

the  tips  of  his  fingers  on  her  sleeve,  and  his  face 
grew  earnest.  "  Fer  the  good  Lord's  sake,  Polly- 
Ann,  don'  ye  let  Lum  mad  Whitsun  !  Nary 
man  en  this  bottom  kin  stan'  agin  him.  Ye 
know  Steve  Elder,  how  big  he  is  ?  He  stole 
a  pa'r  boots  at  the  store.  Whitsun  he  seen 
it,  but  he  never  let  on ;  but  w'en  this  yere 
Steve  comes  fer  his  acceount  he  fin's  at  the 
bottom,  '  One  pa'r  boots,  so  much.  Putt  down 
by  Whitsun  Harp.'  W'en  he  read  thet  ar  he 
never  opened 'is  mouth.  Jes  paid.  Heknowed 
he  cud  n't  stand  up  agin  Whitsun."  All  the 
while  Boas  talked  he  was  scanning  Polly  Ann's 
face  to  see  the  effect  of  his  words.  "  Thar  war 
a  circus  feller  too.  He  brung  a  mighty  ornery, 
mean  show  to  the  Bend,  and  Whitsun  warned 
him  not  ter  show  thet  ar  show  agin  ;  but  he 
pitched  'is  tent  an'  wuz  marchin'  'reoun'  in 
front,  a  puttin'  on  doeg,  w'en  up  comes  Whit- 
sun, an'  he  says,  '  Did  n't  I  warn  ye  not  ter  show 
yo'  durned  ondecent  show  yere?'  sezee.  An' 
he  slapped  up  thet  ar  feller  an'  flung  him  'cross 
a  log  an'  pulled  his  belt  'reoun'  an'  yanked  out 
'is  pistil  an'  flung  hit  cl'ar  'n'  'cross  the  road 
an'  licked  thet  ar  circus  feller  tell  he  hollered. 
An'  ye  'member  ole  Skirey  thet  he  guv  the  bud 
to,  spiter  him  an'  'is  two  sons.  He  knocked 
the  big  un  down,  an'  the  little  one  lit  a  shuck 
mighty  spry.     An'  who  killed  the  mad  doeg 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR  311 

with  a  hammer  ?  An'  who  held  the  wild  hoeg 
by  the  tail  tell  Mark  Lady  cud  stick  'im  ?  — 
them  two  men  off  their  hosses  en  the  cane,  an' 
their  guns  empty  !  Naw,  naw,  Polly  Ann,  don' 
let  Lum  mad  Whitsun  !  An'  't  ain't  lickin's 
thet  's  mos'  ter  fear."  His  woeful  eyes  turned 
from  Polly  Ann's  face  in  a  fleeting,  shrinking, 
indescribable  glance  toward  the  river  bank  — 
"  they  mought  git  —  ter  —  fightin' !  " 

"I  ain't  feered  fer  Lum  ef  they  do,"  said 
Lum's  wife  haughtily. 

But  no  sooner  had  the  well-meaning  threat- 
ener  gone  than  she  ran  into  the  cabin,  shut  the 
door,  and  flung  her  proud  head  on  the  table  in 
a  passion  of  tears. 

Lum  Shinault  came  home  by  moonlight.  His 
wife  had  saved  his  supper,  and  he  stretched  his 
legs  out  beneath  the  white  oil-cloth  with  a  sigh 
of  content. 

"  My,  my,  my  !  "  said  Lum  in  his  soft,  pleas- 
ant voice,  "  talk  'beout  cookin'  !  Polly  Ann, 
ye  allers  git  thar  with  both  feet.  Fried  pork 
an'  sop  an'  taters  an'  pie  an'  light  bread  !  Ony- 
thin'  mo'  ter  foller  ?  " 

A  faint  smile  lifted  the  corners  of  Polly  Ann's 
mouth.  She  knew  her  gifts,  and  appreciation 
is  sweet.  "  I  reckon,"  Lum  continued,  "  hit 
meks  a  differ  eatin'  en  a  purty  room.  This 
yere  's  a  right  purty  room,  Polly  Ann." 


312  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

He  looked  about  the  room,  and  she  looked  at 
him.  The  room  was  poor  and  bare  enough, 
with  its  log  walls  and  uneven  floor ;  but  the 
big  cotton -stuffed  pillows  on  the  bed  shone  out 
of  the  dusk ;  there  was  a  clock  on  the  rude 
mantelpiece,  a  red  cushion  on  the  black  and 
gilt  rocking-chair,  and  a  log  thicker  than  a 
man's  body  was  blazing  in  the  fire-place.  The 
flames,  rather  than  the  sickly  gleam  of  the 
grease  lamp,  lighted  the  room  and  Lum  Shi- 
nault's  face.  He  was  of  low  stature  and  slight, 
and  in  the  firelight  he  made  one  think  of  a 
terra-cotta  figure,  he  was  so  all  of  a  color,  hair, 
skin,  and  clothes  all  the  same,  whitish-brown. 
But  he  had  sparkling  brown  eyes  and  a  sensi- 
tive mouth  that  could  shut  firmly.  "Did  ye 
fin'  the  mewl  ?  "  said  his  wife. 

"  Not  a  hide  nur  a  ha'r  er  the  blamed  crit- 
ter," answered  Lum  cheerfully,  "  but  I  seen  a 
big  gang  er  turkeys.  Reckon  I  shot  one,  but 
I  cud  n't  fin'  hit." 

"  Whitsun  Harp  wuz  yere ;  he  'lows  he  '11  fin' 
the  mewl  fer  us." 

Lum  whistled.  His  meal  being  finished,  he 
got  up  and  stood  close  to  his  wife.  She  had 
knotted  a  scarlet  handkerchief  about  her 
throat,  which  suited  her  olive  skin  and  black 
hair.  Lum  slid  his  arm  around  her  waist.  "  Ye 
ar'  turrible  good-lookin',  Polly  Ann,"  said  he 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  313 

smiling  half  wistfully  ;  "  I  sot  a  heap  er  store 
by  ye." 

She  neither  accepted  nor  repulsed  the  caress  ; 
merely  stood,  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  ab- 
sently gazing  at  the  fire.  His  arm  fell ;  but  in 
a  second  he  put  out  his  hand  again,  to  finger 
softly  a  stray  lock  of  hair. 

"  An'  Bud  Boas,  he  was  yere  too,"  said  Polly 
Ann  ;  '*  he  'lows  ye  'd  bes'  be  keerful  kase  Whit- 
sun  's  mad  at  ye.     He  'lows  yo'  too  triflin'." 

"  An'  /  'low  Whitsun  Harp 's  too  meddlin' !  " 
cried  Lum,  opening  his  brown  eyes  angrily. 
"Wat  bus'ness  ar'  hit  er  his'n?  I  don'  rent  er 
bim.  'T  ain't  his  plantation.  To  my  notion, 
Wbitsun  bed  orter  be  run  off  this  yere  place !  " 

"  He  's  did  a  heap  er  good  yere,"  said  Polly 
Ann  —  was  it  the  firelight,  Lum  wondered,  that 
made  her  cheeks  so  red  ?  —  "  Look  at  the  fiorht- 
in'  an'  drinkin'  he's  stopped !  Thar  ain't  be'n 
a  man  killed  yere  sence  he  turned  regerlater." 

"  Thar  '11  be  one  killed  mighty  quick,  though, 
ef  he  don'  quit  projickin'  'roun'  an'  lickin'  folks 
permiscus'." 

Polly  Ann  laid  her  hand  on  her  husband's 
arm,  looking  down  at  him,  for  she  was  taller 
than  he.  "  Lum,"  she  said  solemnly,  "  he  is 
called.,  Whitsun  is.  They  caynt  hurt  him  till 
his  work 's  did.  Don'  ye  say  anythin'  agin  'im, 
Lum." 


314  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Luin's  frown  turned  into  a  broad  grin.  "  Ob, 
laws !  called  ter  lick  folks  ?  Ef  tbet  ain't  tbe 
durndest  trick  !  " 

"  But  be  is,"  sbe  insisted ;  "  be 's  bed  signs 
an'  tokens.     Don'  go  agin  'im,  Lum." 

"  Wa'al,  boney,"  said  Lum  easily,  "  I  ain't 
purportin'  ter  go  agin  'im.  He  's  too  big  a  b'ar 
fer  me  ter  tackle." 

Polly  Ann  turned  away  abruptly.  Lum 
looked  after  ber,  all  tbe  ligbt-bearted  careless- 
ness gone  out  of  bis  face.  "  'Pears  like  I  jes 
cud  n't  please  ber  nobow,"  be  tbougbt  wbile  be 
busied  bimself  clearing  tbe  table.  Lum  bad  tbe 
babit  of  helping  bis  wife  about  tbe  bouse ;  be 
bad  acquired  it  belping  bis  motber,  Lum's  fa- 
tber  being  "  triflin'." 

At  tbe  same  time  Polly  Ann  was  tbinking : 
"He  won'  figbt  bisself  or  run  enter  no  danger, 
but  be  '11  sick  tbe  rest  on,  an'  bim  stan'  by." 
Sbe  bardly  noticed  bow  deftly  Lum  wiped  tbe 
disbes  and  brusbed  out  tbe  room.  "  Be  ye  too 
tired  ter  listen  ter  a  leetle  music,  boney  ?  "  be 
said  wben  be  bad  put  tbe  broom  bebind  tbe 
door. 

"  Naw,"  said  Polly  Ann,  trying  to  smile,  "  I 
don't  guess  I  'm  ever  too  tired  fer  music." 

Faint  as  tbe  smile  was,  Lum  welcomed  it  and 
took  down  bis  violin  witb  a  brigbter  face. 

He  played  a  long  wbile;  at  first,  simple  mel- 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  315 

odies  of  the  plantation  and  the  camp-meeting  ; 
then,  as  his  thoughts  drifted  into  other  memo- 
ries, they  took  their  own  shape  in  music  rude 
as  his  life,  but  weird  and  sad  like  the  cypress 
brake.     Lum  was   born  a  musician.     He  had 
a  wonderful  ear  but  the  scantiest  knowledge, 
most  of  which  came  from  a  strolling  violinist 
who  had  the  swamp  fever  in  Lum's  cabin  and 
left  a  book  of  songs  for  payment.    Lum  learned 
the  songs  by  heart.     They  were  as  common- 
place as  possible,  but  the  ideas,  worn    shabby 
through  the  handling  of  generations,  were  new 
and  splendid  to  Lum.     Why  not  ?    They  could 
not  have  been  any  fresher  to  him  if  they  had 
just  been  discovered.     They  lifted  and  adorned 
his  notion  of  love.      They   aided   the   ever-in- 
creasing power  which  his  wife  exercised  over 
his  imagination.     He  thought  of  her  in   their 
language,  which  had  a  dignity  and  charming 
tenderness  quite  lacking  in  the   speech  of  his 
birthplace  where  a  man   "  took  up  with  a  girl 
and  married  her,"  making  no  more  ado  about  it ; 
the  song  words  were  so  pretty  and  kind-sound- 
ing, it  was  like  kissing  a  girl  to  say  them.  Lum 
was   too  shy  to  say  them  himself.      Once  he 
ventured  to  call  Polly  Ann  "  darling,"  instantly 
blushing  up  to  his  eyes.     She  did  not  seem  to 
mind,  neither  did  she  seem  pleased.    It  was  the 
way  in  which  she  always  met  her  husband's 


316  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

affection.  This  passive  endurance  of  his  love 
had  come  to  have  a  kind  of  terror  for  Lum.  He 
could  not  understand  his  wife.  To  go  back  to 
the  beginning,  —  as  Lum  did  to-night  on  his 
violin  strings,  —  he  had  married  Polly  Ann  out 
of  compassion.  He  was  in  the  field  when  Old 
Man  Gooden  fell  dead  in  a  fit  of  apoplexy.  He 
helped  Polly  Ann  carry  her  father  into  the 
house,  and  he  witnessed  her  passionate,  dumb 
agony.  Lum  had  a  soft  heart,  unfettered  ex- 
cept by  a  few  rustic  attentions  to  a  certain 
pretty  widow  on  the  plantation,  Mistress  Savan- 
nah Lady.  When  he  beheld  Polly  Ann's  des- 
olate condition  his  heart  melted. 

"  Nary  kin  nigher  'n  the  Sunk  Lan's,"  mused 
Lum,  "  hit 's  turrible  hard.  An'  she  sot  sich 
store  by  her  paw,  an'  he  muched  ^  her  so.  They 
sorter  kep'  ter  theyselves,  too,  I  don't  guess  they 
wuz  the  socherbel  kin'.  Nary  un  waitin'  on  'er 
neether,  'less  hit  ar'  Whitsun  Harp.  Ef  he 
don'  merry  her,  I  reckon  I  hed  orter.  'T  ain't 
no  mo'n  neighborly." 

Whitsun  making  no  sign,  he  carried  out  his 

intention. 

Polly  Ann  assented  gravely,  almost  silently, 
to  whatever  he  proposed.  Nothing  was  easier 
than  to  rent  a  cabin  and  a  pair  of  mules  from 

1  To  much;  Arkansas  for  to  pet,  to  caress,  to  make  much 
of. 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,   REGULATOR.         317 

the  Northern  men  who  had  bought  the  planta- 
tion, and  settle  down  to  raise  a  crop. 

PoUy  Ann,  after  the  first  outburst,  put  her 
grief  stoically  away  and  only  worked  the  harder. 
Polly  Ann's  father  came  from  the  "  Sunk 
Lands,"  that  mysterious  region  created  by  the 
great  Lisbon  earthquake,  —  an  island  in  the 
swamps,  half  the  year  cut  off  from  the  world, 
forgotten  except  by  a  few  traders.  Until  she 
was  fifteen  she  had  lived  the  solitary  life  of  the 
people  and  grown  up  in  their  Indian-like  reti- 
cence. When  she  was  fifteen,  her  mother  died 
and  her  father  took  her  to  Clover  Bend.  She 
was  now  twenty-three  years  old,  and  she  had 
been  married  hardly  five  months.  Lum  was  a 
man  of  the  lowlands,  who  inherited  French  in- 
stincts of  sociability  and  liked  idling  about  and 
gossiping.  He  took  his  new  relations  lightly 
at  first,  but  soon  his  wife's  stronger  nature  fas- 
cinated him.  She  awakened  all  the  ardor  and 
tenderness  in  him,  this  beautiful,  silent,  haughty, 
patient  woman.  "  She  ar'  fairer  nur  the  flow- 
ers," quoted  Lum  from  the  songs;  "an'  she's 
got  a  right  smart  er  sense  too,"  he  added  in  the 
vernacular.  He  declared  his  wife's  superiority 
with  much  frankness.  "  Law  me,"  said  he  to 
Boas,  —  it  was  a  few  days  later,  and  they  sat  on 
the  store  counter,  indulging  in  the  unpretend- 
ing luxury  of  brown  sugar  and  crackers,  —  *'law 


318  KNITTERS  IN    'THE  SUN. 

me,  Polly  Ann  's  wutli  a  hull  crap  er  me  !  Ye  'd 
orter  see  the  plunder  she  've  bought,  pickin' 
cotton  "  — 

"  Wa'al,  then,"  interrupted  Boas,  dropping 
his  customary  mild,  plaintive  drawl  to  a  lower 
key,  "  w'y  fur  be  ye  so  possessed  ter  cavoort 
'reoun'  with  Savannah  Lady  ?  " 
"  Me  !  "  exclaimed  Lum. 
"  Yes,  jes  ?/ott,"  repeated  Boas  with  an  anx- 
ious gaze  into  Lum's  scarlet  face.  "  They  'lows 
like  ye  taken  up  with  'er.  Boy,  j-e  had  n't 
orter  be  agwine  on  thet  way  !  Nur  j^e  had  n't 
orter  come  yere,  fiddlin'  an'  carryin'  on,  an'  yo' 
wife  ter  home,  by  her  lone  self,  studyin'  an' 
grievm      — 

"  Polly  Ann  don'  grieve,"  said  Lum  rather 
sullenly  ;  "  leastways  she  don'  grieve  ayfter  me^ 
nohow.  In  co'se  I  mean,"  he  went  on  quickly, 
"  she  ar'  grievin'  fer  her  paw." 

"  In  co'se,"  said  Boas.  There  was  a  pause. 
"  An'  ez  regardin'  Mistress  Lady,"  Lum 
said  finally,  giving  the  full  prefix  with  dignit}^ 
—  on  ordinary  occasions  one  would  only  say 
"  Mis'  "  in  Arkansas,  —  "  we  uns  wuz  raised  to- 
gether an'  natchelly  have  frien'ly  feelin's.  But 
ef  ye  ar'  'lowin'  thet  I  even  her  or  ary  nother 
lady  ter  Polly  Ann  ye  ar'  a  long  sight  outer  yo' 
reckonin',  thet 's  all.  I  knaw  I  taken  her  ter 
the  singin'  school  the  fiddler  bed  ;  but  Polly 


WHITS  UN  HARP,   REGULATOR.         319 

Ann  never  'd  go  thar  ter  singin',  kase  —  wa'al, 
Polly  Ann  jes  natchelly  cayn't  sing,  cay  n't 
cotch  a  tune.  An'  ez  fer  me  goin'  ter  the  store 
an'  drinkin',  I  disremember  how  often  I  done 
come  yere ;  but  I  know  I  never  got  drunk  ony- 
"whar,  not  the  least  bit  on  earth.  But  I  ain't 
purportin'  to  be  goin'  yere  ter  fiddle  nights, 
Bud  Boas,  never  no  mo'.  Folks  ain't  got  no 
call  ter  say  I  don'  ruther  stay  by  Polly  Ann 
than  onywhar  nelse." 

"  Thet  's  so,"  said  Boas.  "  I  knawed  they 
wuz  lyin'."  Lum  did  not  tell  Boas  that  he 
only  went  to  the  store  because  he  thought  that 
Polly  Ann  did  not  care  to  see  him  home,  and 
his  heart  was  sore.  He  could  not  say  that, 
since  it  would  seem  like  complaining  of  Polly 
Ann.  But  Boas's  caution  set  him  thinking; 
gossip  must  be  loud  to  rouse  that  haunted  soul 
from  its  dream  of  pain. 

"Thet  thar's  w'at  Whit  Harp  done  heerd, 
dad  bum  him,"  growled  Lum,  "  an'  blame  my 
skin  ef  I  don'  b'lieve  thet  ar  Savannah  ar' 
jes  foolin'  with  me  fur  ter  tol  on  Steve  Mor- 
row." Which  it  happened  was  precisely  the 
case.  Savannah  wanted  to  marry  the  stock- 
man, Morrow,  and  she  used  Lum  to  help  her, 
not  at  all  sorry  to  make  Polly  Ann  jealous, 
if  she  could,  as  well  as  Morrow.  "  Ain't  thet 
thar  jest  like  the  critter?"  said  Lum  with  per- 


320  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

feet  good  humor;  "it's  a  rig  on  me  an'  Steve, 
though."  Yet  he  felt  a  queer  resentment 
against  Harp  —  a  resentment  not  diminished 
by  the  sight  of  his  lost  mule  munching  cotton 
stalks  in  his  own  field.  "  Whitsun  fetched  'im," 
Polly  Ann  exclaimed.  It  seemed  to  Lum  that 
she  spoke  as  though  proud  of  Harp's  success. 
Lum,  the  best-tempered  man  on  the  plantation, 
ground  his  teeth.  "I  sw'ar  I  hate  thet  thar 
Whitsun  Harp!"  he  was  thinking. 

The  next  time  that  he  saw  Harp  was  mail  day. 
Twice  a  week  a  rider  brought  the  mail  to  Clover 
Bend.  The  post-office  was  in  the  store,  just  as 
the  court-room  was,  whenever  the  majesty  of 
the  law  was  invoked  or  a  jail  needed.  The 
store  had  a  wide  platform  the  right  height  to 
serve  instead  of  a  horse  block.  Savannah  Lady 
rode  up  to  the  platform  as  Whitsun  came 
through  the  door.  She  was  a  pretty,  kittenish, 
fair  little  woman,  and  her  hair,  which  was  of  a 
lovely  reddish-brown  color,  had  a  trick  of  es- 
caping in  little  ringlets  and  blowing  round  her 
white  neck.  After  all,  there  was  no  great  harm 
in  her ;  but  to  Harp  she  was  the  embodiment  of 
all  that  was  dangerous  and  alluring  in  woman. 

Lum  was  on  the  platform  so  near  that  com- 
mon gallantry  required  him  to  help  her  alight. 
Somehow  she  stumbled,  so  he  held  her  for  a 
second  by  the  elbows.     Harp,  black  as  night, 


WHITS  UN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  321 

watched  her  recover  herself,  laugh,  blush,  and 
flutter  into  the  store.  He  strode  up  to  Lura. 
"Lum  Shinault,"  said  he  in  a  low  tone  and 
very  deliberately,  "  ef  ye  don'  quit  yo'  ornery 
triflin'  ways  I  '11  lick  ye ! " 

"  Then  I  '11  kill  ye,  shore  's  death,  Whitsun 
Harp ! "  Lum  gasped,  choked  with  passion. 

Whitsun  only  gave  him  a  steady  gaze  and 
turned  on  his  heel. 

Lum  felt  himself  despised. 

A  week  went  by.  Polly  Ann  was  conscious 
of  a  change  in  Lum.  Though  kind  as  ever,  his 
shy  caresses  were  no  longer  offered.  He  worked 
harder  and  seldom  went  to  the  store,  "  an'  he 
jis'  studies  the  plum  w'ile,"  said  Polly  Ann. 

One  day  Mrs.  Boas  came  over  to  ask  Lum  to 
get  some  quinine  and  whiskey  at  the  store  for 
Boas.  "  He  had  one  er  'is  spells," —  so  the  poor 
wife  always  named  Boas's  fits  of  terror,  —  ''an' 
he  run  out  en  the  woods  an'  got  soppin'  wet 
an'  cotched  cole  an'  'pears  like  hit  gits  a  leetle 
mucher  all  the  w'ile." 

After  Lum  was  gone  Polly  Ann  bethought 
herself  of  some  corn  which  should  be  ground, 
and  that  it  was  grinding  day  at  the  mill.  Like 
the  store,  the  mill  was  a  versatile  and  accom- 
modating establishment,  ginning  cotton,  sawing 
wood,  or  grinding  corn  with  equal  readiness. 
So  saddling  the  big  gray  horse,  which  was  at 


322  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

once  her  dowry  and  her  inheritance,  she  led 
him  to  the  ferry  and  paddled  boat,  horse,  and 
woman  across  the  stream.  The  Clover  Bend 
ferry  was  deserted,  but  it  was  accustomed  to 
desertion,  being  conducted  on  Southern  prin- 
ciples: if  you  came  when  the  ferryman  was 
away  you  must  wait  until  he  got  back,  that 
was  all. 

Polly  Ann  saw  Lum's  wagon-box  boat  on  the 
sand,  and  riding  up  the  bank  she  perceived 
Lum  himself  walking  through  the  cypress  brake. 

"  Cypress  Swamp,"  or  the  "  Black  River 
bottom,"  is  like  a  dry  river  channel  winding 
through  the  higher  land.  When  the  spring  over- 
flow comes  the  lustrous  green  water  rushes 
among  the  tree  trunks,  and  the  high  land  be- 
comes a  multitude  of  islands  and  peninsulas; 
but  most  of  the  year  the  channel  is  dry,  and  in 
autumn  the  cypress  boughs  spread  a  soft  russet 
carpet  on  the  ground ;  the  hackberry,  maples, 
live-oaks,  and  holly-trees  which  mingle  with  the 
cypress  splash  the  foliage  with  splendid  hues, 
the  sunlight  filters  through  the  branches  and 
prints  shifting  shadows  of  the  vines  masking 
the  thorn-trees,  or  turns  the  red  berries  into 
dots  of  flame.  Then  the  cypress  brake  is  beau- 
tiful. But  Lum  Shinault  was  not  thinking  of 
its  beauty.  He  was  walking  slowly,  his  head 
sunk  between  his  shoulders. 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,   REGULATOR.         323 

"  Studyin' !"  said  Polly  Ann. 

Lum  looked  up.  The  silhouette  of  a  horse's 
head  had  fallen  across  his  path.  A  sun-bonnet 
was  bent  over  the  mane.  The  bonnet  hid  the 
woman's  face,  but  that  ringlet  of  dazzling  hair, 
floating  under  the  cape,  could  only  belong  to 
one  person.  Horse  and  rider  stopped.  So  did 
the  footman.  His  shadow  spread  out  gigantic 
on  the  ground.  Then  both  shadows  were  blend- 
ed together  as  if  in  an  embrace.  Did  Polly  Ann 
grow  angry?  Not  in  the  least ;  she  could  see 
too  well. 

"  Wats  got  Savannah  Lady  ?  "  said  she  ; 
"  looks  like  Lum  was  guvin'  'er  w'iskey  an'  hold- 
m  uv  er. 

This,  indeed,  was  what  he  was  doing.  For 
once  there  was  no  guile  about  Savannah's  acts ; 
Lum  had  served  her  turn.  Young  Morrow  had 
spoken,  and  she  was  on  her  way  to  buy  her 
wedding  finery  when  she  was  seized  with  a  chill ; 
but  she  still  rode  on,  clinging  to  her  horse's 
neck,  until  she  met  Lum.  He  gave  her  some 
whiskey. 

Now  by  an  evil  chance,  at  this  moment, 
Whitsun  Harp  must  needs  enter  the  scene  on  a 
gallop.  He  saw  the  shadows,  he  saw  the  bright 
head  on  Lum's  shoulder,  the  little  hands  clutch- 
ing Lum's  arm. 

A  shower  of  cypress  boughs  whirled  in  the 


324  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

air ;  a  pawpaw  branch  snapped,  wrenched  away 
by  a  furious  hand  ;  and  Lum  lifted  his  eyes  to 
see  Whitsun's  face. 

"  I  tell  ye,  yo'  mistaken  !  "  shouted  Lum. 

•'  It 's  too  late  for  talking  now,"  said  Whit- 
sun,  deep  and  low. 

He  jumped  off  his  horse  and  caught  Lum  by 
the  throat.  The  smaller  man  was  like  a  baby 
in  his  grip.  Lum,  writhing  and  struggling,  in 
an  impotent  fury  of  rage  and  shame,  hardly  felt 
the  blows.  Suddenly  the  hand  at  his  throat 
released  him  so  suddenly  that  he  was  hurled 
to  the  ground ;  he  heard  his  wife's  voice,  shrill 
with  anger :  "  Whitsun  Harp,  w'at  ye  doin'  ter 
my  man?" 

He  sat  up,  his  brain  swimming,  specks  of  fire 
and  blood  floating  in  the  air  ;  but  there  was 
Whitsun  standing  empty-handed,  and  Polly 
Ann's  face  over  the  gray's  head. 

*'  I  did  n't  aim  ye  shud  ever  knaw  on  't,  Polly 
Ann,"  said  Whitsun,  "  I  cud  n't  holp  it,  hit  hed 
ter  be  did." 

"  I  '11  never  fergive  ye  en  this  worF,  Whitsun 
Harp  !  "  said  Polly  Ann. 

Lum  put  his  hands  on  the  tree  near  him  and 
got  to  his  feet.  He  leaned  on  the  tree  and 
steadied  his  choked  and  shaking  voice  enough 
to  say,  '*  Look  a  yere,  Whitsun  Harp,  I  '11  kill 
ye  fer  this." 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  325 

Harp  did  not  glance  toward  him  ;  he  took 
one  step  forward  as  though  he  would  speak  to 
Polly  Ann,  but  at  her  gesture  of  repulsion  he 
turned  silently  and  mounted  his  horse.  On 
horseback,  he  reined  in  his  horse,  and  looking 
at  Polly  Ann,  said  again,  '•'  I  cud  n't  holp  it," 
before  he  galloped  away. 

Savannah  was  shivering  and  crying. 

"  Hit  you  ary  lick,  Savannah  ?  '*  said  Lum. 

"  Naw,  naw,"  sobbed  she.  "  Oh,  Lum,  oh. 
Mis'  Shinault,  't  wa'n't  my  fault !  I  war  jes 
sick.  Whitsun  's  heerd  lies  on  me  'n'  Lum. 
I  'm  goin'  ter  be  merried  ter  Steve  Morrow 
nex'  week.  Fer  the  Lord's  sake,  don'  tell  'im  ; 
he  wud  n't  never  speak  ter  me  agin  !  I  done 
my  best !     I  pulled  Whitsun's  arm." 

For  all  his  misery,  Lum  burst  into  a  bitter 
laugh.  "  Muster  hendered  Whitsun  a  heap, 
you  hoklin'  on,"  said  he.  '*  You  go  'long  home, 
Savannah,  an'  don'  be  skeered  er  we  uns  tell- 
in'  ;  jes  tek  keer  ye  don'  let  on  nuthin'  yo'self  — 
never  min'  w'at  happens  !  " 

Something  in  his  face  checked  her  answer ; 
she  was  scared,  and  glad  to  ride  away. 

The  husband  and  wife  were  left  alone  to- 
gether. 

Lum  looked  at  Polly  Ann,  who  was  very  pale, 
"  Ye  come  jes  in  time,  Polly  Ann,"  said  he. 

"I  wud  n't  o'  b'lieved  ye'd  a  taken  it,  Lum 


326  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

Shinault,"  said  she  bitterlj^  *'  with  yo'  knife  on 
too.     Pull  yo'  belt  'reoun ' !  " 

Mechanically,  Lum  put  his  hand  to  his  belt, 
which  had  been  twisted  so  that  the  knife  was 
in  the  back.  "I  done  forgot  'beout  the  knife," 
muttered  Lum,  reddening  ;  "  thet  ar  's  a  favor- 
yte  trick  er  Harp's."  Then,  in  a  second,  he 
added :  "  I  ain't  goin'  ter  tek  hit,  Polly  Ann." 

She  said  nothing. 

"  Ye  don'  b'lieve  me,"  cried  Lum. 

"  'T  ain't  no  use  talkin',"  said  she  wearily. 

"  I  '11  hev  it  out  with  'im.  Ye  'low  I  'm  a 
ornery,  triflin',  pusillanimous  "  — 

"  Whar  's  the  use  callin'  yo'self  names  ?  "  in- 
terrupted Polly  Ann.  ''  I  don'  wanter  yere  no 
more  'beout  it.  •  Reckon  Boas  '11  waynt  'is  w'is- 
key,  onyhow.  Thar  't  is  un'er  the  gum-tree." 
Lum  looked  at  his  wife  with  imploring  eyes 
and  quivering  mouth  ;  at  that  moment  he  was 
longing  to  fling  his  arms  about  her  and  sob  out 
his  shame  on  her  breast.  Poor  Lum's  grand- 
father was  a  Frenchman. 

Polly  Ann  did  not  look  at  him,  but  went  on 
arranging  her  bag  of  corn;  all  Lum  could  see 
was  the  profile  of  her  sun-bonnet  —  there  is 
nothing  sympathetic  about  a  sun-bonnet.  "  Bes' 
git  on  ter  the  mill  ef  I  waynt  a  pone  er  bread 
ter-day,"  said  Polly  Ann.  "  Be  bacli  ter  din- 
ner, Lum." 


WniTSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         327 

She  rode  on  a  little  way  and  stopped.  "  I  'm 
goin'  ter  hev  a  plum  good  dinner  fer  ye,  Lum," 
she  called  back. 

"  Thankee,  Polly  Ann,"  said  Lum.  He 
watched  her  until  the  trees  hid  horse  and  rider. 
"Polly  Ann  'lows  thar  ain't  no  troubles  men 
persons  cayn't  cure  with  eatin'  an'  drinkin'," 
said  he  ;  "  drinkin',"  —  he  eyed  the  whiskey 
bottle  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  gam-tree, — 
"  naw,  thar  ain't  ony  comfort  fer  me  en  thet 
ar.  I  'm  en  a  hole,  an'  thar  's  jes  one  way  outen 
hit.  No  good  talkin'  ter  Polly  Ann,  she  's  sot. 
'T  wud  on'y  pester  her.  Oh,  my  Lord,  ain't  it 
hard !  " 

"I  wisht  I  cud  hev  kissed  her  jes  wunst,"  he 
said,  after  a  while,  "  on'y  fer  ter  say  good-by. 
How  soft  her  cheek  wuz  !  An'  thar  war  a  little 
blue  vein  jes  un'er  the  ear.  Wa'al,  hit  won' 
mek  no  differ  ter  her,  but  I  wisht  "  — 

He  walked  on  slowly  until  he  came  to  the 
boat  on  the  sand.  He  could  see  his  own  cabin. 
He  remembered  the  day  that  he  brought  Polly 
Ann  to  it  —  his  wedding-day.  He  crawled  into 
the  boat,  lay  down  in  the  stern,  and  cried  Hke 
a  child. 

PART  n. 

Polly    Ann's    good    dinner    waited    in  vain.  ' 
Lum  did  not  come.     Yet  she  was  sure  that, 


828  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

while  at  the  well  drawing  water,  she  had  seen 
his  figure  through  the  window.  She  blew  the 
horn.  She  called  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Fi- 
nally she  went  to  the  shed  to  see  if  the  horse 
was  gone.  Gone  he  was,  and  there  was  a  piece 
of  brown  wrapping-paper,  such  as  they  used  at 
the  store,  tacked  on  to  a  log  and  directed  to 
"Mistris  Shinalt."  She  took  it  down,  turned  it 
over,  and  saw  a  single  sentence,  written  in 
pencil,  in  cramped,  careful  letters :  "  Darling 
Polly  an  i  taken  your  Hoss  fer  a  Errant  i  wunt 
be  bak  your  Lovin  Husban.     C.  Shinalt." 

"  Law  me  !  "  said  Polly  Ann,  "  he  mought 
hev  come  in,  onyhow.  An'  the  dinner  's  plum 
sp'iled." 

She  was  wretched  over  the  morning's  work, 
but  she  did  not  feel  alarmed,  having  no  belief  in 
Lura's  courage ;  and  when  she  discovered  that 
the  gun  was  gone,  she  merely  thought  that  he 
meant  to  shoot  squirrels. 

But  Lum  was  seeking  other  game.  His  er- 
rand was  to  kill  Whitsun  Harp.  The  smoulder- 
ing jealousy  and  resentment  of  weeks  had  burst 
into  a  flame  that  was  shriveling  his  heart.  He 
had  been  beaten  before  his  wife,  his  wife  who 
valued  strength  and  bravery  beyond  everything. 
And  Whitsun,  whom  she  praised  because  he 
was  so  strong  and  brave,  had  beaten  him. 
How  many  times  had  she  praised  Whitsun  to 


WHITSUN  HARP,   REGULATOR.         329 

his  face.  Like  enough  she  had  wanted  the 
regulator  all  along,  and  had  only  taken  up  with 
Lura  because  Whitsun  did  n't  speak  —  girls 
did  such  things  Lum  knew  from  the  songs. 
Here  was  the  secret  of  her  being  so  quiet  and 
sad,  and  of  that  queer  way  she  had  with  her 
that  made  him  feel  farther  away,  in  the  same 
room,  than  he  did  thinking  of  her,  miles  off,  in 
the  bottom. 

"  I  never  cud  much  her  like  I  cud  t'  other 
gells,"  thought  Lum;  "I  alius  hed  ter  study 
on  't  afore  I  cud  putt  my  arm  'reoun'  her  waist. 
Reckon  I  sorter  s'picioned,  inside,  thet  it  pes- 
tered her.     Pore  Polly  Ann  !  " 

It  was  like  Lum  to  feel  no  anger,  only  com- 
passion, for  his  wife. 

*' Hit's  bad  fer  her  too — turrible  bad,"  he 
pondered  ;  "  ef  it 's  me  gits  killed  up  she  caynt 
hev  no  mo'  truck  wi'  him,  an'  ef  it 's  him  she  '11 
natcbally  hate  the  sight  er  me !  Wa'al,  she 
won'  be  pestered  with  it ;  I  '11  go  off  on  the 
cotton-boat  afore  sundown.  All  through  this 
wide  worl'  I  '11  wander,  my  lone,"  said  Lum, 
his  thoughts  unaffectedly  shaping  themselves 
in  the  words  of  his  songs.  They  did  not  cause 
him  to  waver  in  his  purpose  ;  he  knew  Polly 
Ann's  notions  of  manly  honor  too  well.  Old 
Man  Gooden  shot  a  man  once. 

"Paw  hed  ter  shoot  him,"  Polly  Ann  ex- 
plained ;  "  he  spatted  paw  en  the  face." 


330  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

*'  An'  ef  a  feller  spatted  me,  wud  I  hev  ter 
shoot  him?"  Lum  had  asked,  amused  by  her 
earnestness,  for  this  was  before  he  passed  the 
careless  stage  of  his  marriage. 

"  Wud  n't  ye  waynt  fer  ter  shoot  'im  ?  "  said 
Polly  Ann,  fixing  her  beautiful  grave  eyes  on 
his  smiling  face. 

"  Wa'al,  I  shudn't  crave  it,"  said  Lum. 

"  But  ye  wud,  Lum,  ye  wud  shoot  him  !  " 

"Mabbe  —  ef  I  cud  n't  run  away,"  answered 
Lum,  and  he  had  laughed  at  her  face  over  that 
speech. 

He  did  not  laugh  now,  riding  with  his  bruised 
throat  and  aching  shoulders,  and  the  gun  slung 
across  his  saddle-peak. 

"  Him  or  me,"  groaned  Lum  ;  "  hit 's  him  or 
me  —  one  !     Thar  ain't  no  tother  way  !  " 

He  was  riding  through  the  bottom  lands 
above  the  mill.  The  entire  bottom  was  like 
an  innocent  jungle  with  its  waving  green  un- 
dergrowth of  cane.  Pigs  were  rooting  under 
the  trees,  and  the  heads  of  cattle  rose  above  the 
cane,  turning  peaceful  eyes  of  satisfied  appetite 
upon  Lum's  reckless  speed. 

There  was  no  reason  for  haste,  really,  outside 
the  relief  which  motion  gives  to  a  perturbed 
soul,  for  Lum  knew  that  Whitsun  was  buying 
a  horse  of  a  farmer  up  on  the  bayou,  and  would 
have  to  return  by  the  same  road.     But  he  did 


W BITS  UN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         331 

not  slacken  his  pace  until  he  came  on  a  man 
riding  more  leisurely.  The  man  hailed  him, 
and  he  saw  Boas. 

"  W'y,  I  wuz  at  yo'  heouse,"  said  Lum,  "  an' 
Mis'  Boas  'lowed  ye  wuz  en  bed." 

"  So  I  war,"  said  Boas  in  a  weak,  high  voice, 
*'  but  —  I  got  up  —  I  got  up  !  " 

"  Toby  shore,  toby  shore,"  said  Lum  sooth- 
ingly. 

He  saw  the  man  could  barely  keep  in  his  sad- 
dle for  trembling,  and  that  his  features  were 
ghastly  ;  but  Lum  had  the  humblest  Southern- 
er's innate  politeness ;  it  was  not  deemed  good 
manners  in  Clover  Bend  to  take  notice  of  any 
thing  singular  in  Boas's  appearance  or  conduct ; 
there  was  one  unhappy  explanation  always 
ready. 

Lum,  through  his  daze  of  anguish,  felt  a  prick 
of  pity  for  this  miserable  being  who  had  done 
many  a  kindness  to  Lum's  mother  in  his  un- 
haunted  days.  He  stretched  out  his  arm  and 
supported  Boas  by  the  elbow. 

"  Oh,  I  'm  peart  enough,"  said  Boas ;  "  I 
waynter  tell  ye  suthin',  Lum." 

The  younger  man  resigned  himself  with  in- 
ward impatience  to  a  slower  gait. 

"This  yere 's  a  sightly  kentry,  Lum,  ain't 
it?  "  said  Boas,  gazing  about  him,  "  but  I  ain't 
'repinin'  ter  leave  it." 


332  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

'*  Be  ye  gwine  ter  Texas  ?  " 

"  Farder  'n  Texas,  boy.  Dr.  Vinson  was  over 
an'  he  tole  me  —  naw,  Lum,  ye  don'  need  ter 
say  yo'  sorry,  I  know  ye  ar.  Ye  be'n  like  a 
son  ter  me  sence  ever  ye  wuz  a  little  trick  an' 
played  with  my  boys.  Ye  wuz  the  least  little 
trick  er  all.  Ye  'member  'em,  Lum,  sich  peart, 
likely  boys  they  wuz,  an'  they  all  died  up  an' 
nary  un  ter  home,  peaceable  like;  Mat  an'  Tobe 
drownded,  an'  Mark  throwed  from  his  hoss. 
All  on  'em  ayf ter  —  ye  know  w'at  —  all  three 
en  one  year,  ev'ry  chile  we  'd  got,  Ora  an'  me. 
Hit  war  hard  ter  endure,  Lum,  turrible  hard." 

"It  war  so,"  said  Lum. 

"  Wa'al,  they  're  all  on  'em  gone.  An'  I  '11 
be  gone,  too,  afore  long.  I  ain't  repinin'.  Lum, 
ye  never  heerd  me  talk  on  't ;  I  cud  n't  b'ar  ter 
speak ;  but,  somehow,  'pears  like  't  wud  ease 
my  min'  a  bit  ter  tell  ye  suthin'  er  my  feelin's, 
Lum  ;  ef  I  hed  n't  er  be'n  so  mortal  skeered  er 
meetin'  up  with  Grundy,  I  'd  a  killed  myse'f  a 
long  spell  back,  I  wud  so.  I  'm  wore  out.  Boy, 
ef  so  be  yo'  tempted  ter  fight,  'mind  yo'se'f  er 
me  !  I  killed  Grundy  Wild,  killed  'im  fair  too ; 
but.  Lord  ferguv  me,  I  done  went  enter  thet  ar 
fight  aimirC  ter  kill.  I  'low  thet  war  how  he 
got  'is  holt  on  me.  Fer  he 's  never  lef  me 
sence.  Fust  I  wud  n't  guv  in.  *  Be  thet  ar  all 
the  harntin'  ye  kin  mek  out  ?  '  sez  I.     But  hit 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  333 

kep'  a  comin'  an'  a  comin',  never  no  differ,  tell 
hit  crazied  me,  Lum  ! 

"  Niir  thet  war  n't  the  wust  on  it.  The  wust 
war  bein'  skeered  the  hull  w'ile,  'spectin'  an' 
dreadin'  never  no  tell. 

"  Did  ye  never  hev  a  door  a  squeakin',  Lum  ? 
A   squeakin'    door   ar'    a    mighty  little   trick ; 
't  ain't  nuthin',  ye  may  say  ;  but  ye  '11  be  a  set- 
tin'  an'  thet  thar  door  '11  squeak  an'  stop,  an' 
then  it  '11  squeak  agin,  an'  then  not,  an'  then 
squeak   an'  squeak   an'  squeak  tell  ye  git  up, 
sw'arin'  mad,  an'  shet  the  door.     Lum.,  I  cud  nt 
shet  the  door!     I   taken    ter   drinkin',    but   I 
cud  n't  git  so  drunk  thet  I  'd  not  feel  thet  thar 
cole  han'  er  his'n  a  flap  flabbin'  on   my  face. 
Hit 's  wore  me  out.    At  las'  I  jes  give  up  ;  an', 
my  Lord !  'peared  like   his  soul  fa'rly  enjyed 
trompin'  on  me,  r'arin'  an'  chargin'  like  't  wuz 
a  wil'  hog  !     Oh,   my  Lord  !  my  Lord  !  "      The 
man  shook  in  his  saddle  with  the  horror   of    his 
recollections.    But  he  controlled  himself  enough 
to  go  on,  though  the  sentences  came  in  pants. 
"  Then  I  'merabered  —  thet  thar  tex'  —  an  eye 
fer  an  eye  an'  a  tooth  fer  a  tooth.     Hit  come 
ter  me  —  cud  I  on'y  swap  a  life  with  the  Lord 
fer  Grundy's  —  then   it  mought  be  he  wud  tek 
Grundy  offen  me  an'  —  let  me  die  en  peace.     I 
don'   ax   no   mo'."     He    stopped,  gasping   and 
coughing    while    Lum    held    him.     Lum    was 


334  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

deeply  touched ;  he  was  not  a  whit  moved  from 
his  intention ;  but  he  was  touched,  and  he  felt 
a  sombre  sense  of  comradeship,  thinking, 
*'  Mabbe  I  '11  know  how  ye  feel,  termorrer." 
Boas  continued :  — 

"  An',  Lum,  w'ile  I  war  study  in'  an'  pray  in', 
'Lord,  let  thy  pore  sinful  sarvint  wipe  the 
blood-guiltiniss  offen  his  soul  an'  not  hev  ter 
die  skeered  I '  Lum,  I  heerd  them  Case  boys 
from  the  hills  talkin'  outside.  They  wuz  come 
ter  borry  my  bateau.  They  wuz  ayfter  Whit- 
sun  Harp,  bekase  he  'd  prommused  the  big  un, 
Ike,  a  lickin'  fer  beatin'  Ole  Man  Bryce  outen 
'is  cotton.  They  wuz  'lowin'  ter  pick  a  fight 
wi'  him  an'  kill  him.  I  peeked  outer  a  crack 
an'  seen  'em.  Two  hed  guns,  an'  all  three  hed 
knives.  So  I  tole  Ora  ter  tell  'em  we  'lowed 
ter  use  our  own  boat.  But  they  got  a  bateau 
farder  down,  an'  I  seen  'em  en  the  river,  so  I 
hed  Ora  row  me  over  an'  I  borried  Looney's 
hoss,  it  bein'  so  easy  —  an'  I  'm  agwine  ter 
warn  'im.  The  river  twists  so,  an'  thar's  a 
right  smart  er  groun'  'tween  Young  Canes  whar 
he  ar'  an'  the  water,  I  kin'  git  thar  fust,  easy  — 
Say,  little  tricks,  w'at  ye  bellerin'  fer  ?  "  The 
road  had  passed  a  little  clearing,  made  in  Ar- 
kansas fashion  by  burning  down  the  trees.  The 
cabin  in  the  centre  had  no  window,  and  the 
door  was  open,  showing  three  particularly  dirty 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         335 

children  who  were  all  crying  together.  The 
oldest  stuck  a  shaggy  white  head  out  to  say, 
"  Hit 's  fer  maw  ?  " 

"  Whar  's  yor  maw  done  gone  ?  " 

"  She  's  done  gone  'ith  Mr.  Harp  fer  ter  see 
Aunt  Milly  Thorn,  kase  Uncle  Tobe  Thorn 
done  lick  er  hide  off  en  er,"  said  the  child,  evi- 
dently repeating  an  older  tongue's  story.  "  I 
sended  three  men  ayfter  er,  but  she  ain't  come 
back,  an'  we  uns  is  hungry.  Oh  dear,  maw ! 
maw ! " 

"  Hush,  hush,  honey,"  said  Boas,  trembling, 
"  whar  did  the  men  come  from  ?  " 

"  They  come  from  a  boat,  an'  they  axed  fer 
Mr.  Harp,  an'  they  said  they  wud  fotch  maw 
back  in  the  boat.     Will  ye  fotch  maw  ?  " 

"  Ter  Tobe  Thorn's,"  screamed  Boas,  clutch- 
ing Lum's  arm  ;  "  d  'ye  onnerstan',  Lum  ? 
Thet  's  'cross  the  big  bayou,  the  heouse  on  the 
bank ;  they  kin  cut  'cross  en  the  bateau  an'  the 
road  goes  'way  off  t'  other  side.  I  cayn't  do 
hit,  Lum,  the  Lord  don'  mean  ter  parden  me  ! 
An'  pore  Whitsun  "  —  shaking  Lum's  arm  in 
his  uncontrollable  ao^itation  —  "  Lum,  mabbe 
its  'tended  fer  you  ter  save  'im !  .  Yo'  boss 
never  makes  a  blunder.  Ye  knaw  the  bottom, 
an'  ye  kin  ride  through  the  brake  fast  —  fast ! " 

Lum  turned  a  dull,  deep  red ;  he  felt  him- 
self  suffocating  with  passion ;    he  saw  his  re- 


336  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

venge  lost  and  with  it  everything  else.  Yet 
he  could  not  wrench  his  last  hope  from  this 
hunted,  desperate,  d34ng  creature.  And  Boas 
had  been  kind  to  his  mother. 

"  Lum,  ye  will  do  hit,"  pleaded  Boas ;  "  I 
knaw  ye  don'  bear  no  good  will  ter  Harp,  but, 
God  A'mighty,  he  's  a  human  critter,  ye  won' 
see  'im  murdered,  w'en  ye  kin  save  'is  life  ! 
Ye  cayn't  be  so  hard-hearted  !  Oh,  Lum,  do 
it  ter  save  me^  ter  holp  me  outen  the  hell  I 
be'n  en  fer  five  year  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Lum,  "  I  '11  go  fer  you.,  Boas." 

His  face  was  as  white  as  Boas's,  but  Boas 
could  not  see  ;  he  pushed  his  helper  by  the 
shoulder  to  hurry  him,  panting,  "  Go  'long, 
then,  fast,  fer  God's  sake  !  God  bless  ye,  boy, 
ye  '11  save  two  men  stiddyer  one.  How  he  rides, 
an'  I  useter  ride  thet  way "  —  The  children 
cried,  and  he  went  to  them  ;  Lum  was  out  of 
sight  in  the  high  cane. 

The  young  fellow  rode  furiously.  Beneath 
that  pleasant  green  sea  lay  pronged  roots  and 
logs  and  ugly  holes.  Thorn-trees  stretched  out 
their  spiked  limbs,  wild  grape-vines  flung  their 
beautiful  treacherous  lassos  on  the  breeze,  and 
pawpaw  saplings,  stout  enough  to  trip  a  horse, 
were  ambushed  in  the  cane.  Through  them 
all  crashed  the  brave  gray,  leaping,  dodging, 
beating  down  the  cane  with  his  broad  chest, 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         337 

and  never  slackening  his  speed.  It  looked  like 
a  frantic  race  through  the  wilderness,  but, 
with  the  woodman's  instinct,  the  rider  leaving 
the  perils  below  to  the  beast's  sure  eyes  was 
really  guiding  him  on  an  invisible  course. 

At  last  Lum  drew  rein  before  another  clear- 
ing. He  could  see  Thorn's  cabin  and  women 
in  the  "gallery,"  and  riding  along  the  shore, 
nearer  and  more  distinct,  the  figure  of  a  man 
on  horseback,  plainly  Whitsun  Harp. 

Lum  galloped  up  to  him. 

The  regulator  carried  pistols  in  the  holsters 
of  his  old  cavalry  saddle  ;  the  barrel  of  one 
flashed  out  as  Lum  approached. 

"  Ye  ain't  no  call  ter  be  skeered  er  me !  '* 
shouted  Lum.  "  Not  this  time.  Look  out  fer 
the  Case  boys  —  thar,  on  the  bateau !  They  're 
a  comin' !  "  — 

"  Shucks  !  "  said  Whitsun.  He  gave  Lum  a 
long  and  keen  glance  which  apparently  satis- 
fied him,  for  he  addressed  himself  at  once  to 
the  more  imperative  danger.  In  fact,  the  Case 
boys  were  landing.  Ike,  the  tallest,  he  to 
whom  the  "  lickin'  "  had  been  promised,  stood 
up  in  the  boat,  as  the  keel  grated  on  the  sand, 
and  hailed  Lum  ;  — 

"  Say,  Lum  Shinault,  moosey  outer  yere,  we 
hain't  no  gredge  agin  you  !  " 

"  Wat  mought  ye  hev  come  fer,  then  ?  "  said 
Lum  sarcastically. 


338  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

"  Ter  guv  that  thar regerlater  a  show 

ter  lick  Ike,  ef  lie  dai'st,"  called  the  second 
brother. 

"  I  darst,"  Whitsun  replied  with  his  usual 
composure;  "jes  come  on  over!  "  The  broth- 
ers consulted  ;  then  Lum  was  hailed  again  :  — 

"  Lum  Shinault,  git  outen  the  road  !  " 

"The  road's  free,"  said  Lum.  '^  Yo'  mighty 
brash  orderin'  folks  outen  the  road !  " 

"  Dad  burn  ye,  be  ye  on  his  side  ?  " 

"  Looks  like,"  replied  Lum  indifferently  ; 
"  onyhow,  ef  ye  waynt  a  fight  ye  kin  hev 
hit !  " 

"  They  all  won*  fight,"  said  Whitsun. 

Nor  did  they.  The  third  Case  boy  (while 
the  others  were  bending  to  their  oars)  yelled : 
"  A  man  so  mean 's  you,  Whit  Harp,  hed  orter 
be  shot  'twixt  the  cross  er  the  gallowses,  an' 
we  '11  do  hit  yit !  "  And  the  big  Ike  informed 
Lum  that  he  was  "  let  off  "  on  account  of  the 
women  in  the  cabin;  but  not  one  of  them  lifted 
his  gun.  Safe  out  in  the  river,  they  threw 
back  a  shower  of  threats  and  oaths,  but  noth- 
ing more  solid. 

"  They  're  pusillanimous  cusses,"  remarked 
Harp.  Then  he  drew  nearer  Lum,  looking 
actually  embarrassed.  "  I  cajm't  mek  you  out 
rightly,  nohow,  Columbus  Shinault,"  said  he. 

"  Naw,"  said  Lum  scornfully,  "  nor  I  cayn't 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         339 

mek  myself  out.  Look  a  yere,  Whit  Harp,  I 
come  enter  this  yere  bottom  ter  kill  yoa." 

Whitsun  nodded  gravely,  making  a  little  af- 
firmative noise  in  his  throat,  exactly  as  he  might 
have  done  to  a  remark  about  the  weather. 

"  An'  I  wud  hev  killed  ye  or  be'n  killed  up 
myself  —  one,  ef  I  bed  n't  met  up  with  Bud 
Boas.  'T  ain't  no  differ  hoiv  he  stopped  me ; 
he  done  hit,  he  sent  me  on  his  errant  ter  ye  — 
ter  warn  ye  ;  an'  w'at  's  mo',  so  longer  's  he 
Kves,  ye  ain't  nuthin'  ter  fear  from  me.  But 
w'en  he  done  gone  —  look  out !  "  He  would 
have  wheeled  his  horse,  but  Harp  caught  the 
rein,  saying,  "  Stop !  w'at  sorter  trick 's  all 
this  ?  W'at  fer  did  ye  stop  fer  Bud  Boas  ? 
Did  he  —  did  he  skeer  ye  with  his  ghost  ?  " 

Lum  laughed  harshly,  in  sheer  bitterness  of 
soul :  "  A  dozen  ghosts  wud  n't  a  stopped  me. 
I  don'  hole  by  ghosts  nohow." 

"  Then  w'y  did  ye  go  ?  " 

None  of  us  are  above  wishing  to  be  justified, 
and  there  is  a  peculiar  zest  in  overturning  our 
enemies'  false  notions  of  us.  Lum  never  would 
have  proffered  an  explanation,  but  there  may 
have  been  a  grim  comfort  in  letting  Whitsun 
see  his  real  self.  He  replied  quietly,  "  I  come 
ter  holp  Boas." 

"  How  'd  thet  holp  'im  ?  " 

"  'Kase  he  war  purportin'  ter  warn  ye  his- 


340  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

self.  He  'lowed  ef  he  cud  jes  save  some  un's 
life  —  a  sorter  swap  like  fer  the  one  he  taken, 
thet  ar  glios'  w'at  harnts  'ira  monght  quit." 

"  Did  the  ghost  say  so  ?  " 

"  I  don'  hole  by  ghosts,  I  tell  ye.  Naw,  it 's 
jes  a  idy.  So  's  the  ghost  a  idy,  ter  mi/  min'. 
But  hit's  plura  fixed  in  'is  head  jes  strong's 
scripter.  An'  I  reckon  't  wuU  be  like  he  'lows 
't  will  be  —  so.  He  'lowed  ef  he  cud  save  ye 
from  bein'  killed  up  er  hev  me,  then  the  ghost 
'ud  let  up  an'  he  cud  die  in  peace." 

"  Toby  shore.  An'  hit  war  thet  away  ?  An' 
thet  thar  's  w'y  ye  won'  fight  me  —  kase  the 
life  won'  be  saved  then  an'  the  sperrit  mought 
cum  back  ?  " 

Lum  shrugged  his  shoulders :  "  I  guess." 

Whitsun's  stolid  face  worked  as  he  cried : 
"  Blame  my  skin  ef  I  kin  mek  ye  out  onyhow ! 
Ye  ain't  no  sich  feller  like  I  wuz  'ceountin'  ye 
ter  be  !  "  The  blood  rushed  to  Lum's  fore- 
head with  a  sudden  sense  of  the  uselessness  of 
this  late  recognition,  a  sudden  fury  of  pain. 
*'  Ye  hev  foun'  hit  out  too  late,  Whitsun  Harp," 
he  cried  ;  "  ye  shamed  me  afore  Polly  Ann,  an' 
ye  shamed  her  too,  lickin'  her  husband  jes  be- 
kase  ye  wuz  the  bigges'  an'  stronges',  an'  ye 
WHIZ  too  dumb  ter  see  thet  thar  triflin'  critter. 
Savannah,  war  jes  sick  with  a  chill,  an'  I  wus 
guvin'  on  her  w'iskey." 


WHITS  UN  HARP,   REGULATOR.         341 

"An'  was  them  lies  'beaut  you  an  'er?" 

"  Ax  Aer,"  said  Lum,  overcome  by  irrita- 
tion ;  "  I  don'  want  no  mo'  truck  'ith  ye,  Whit 
Harp,  w'ile  Boas  is  'live.     Let  go  !  " 

"  Jes  er  minute  mo',  Lum.  I  ain't  agoin' 
ter  fight  with  ye  ayfter  this  ev'nin'.  An'  ef  I 
done  ye  wrong  I  '11  ondo  hit  yit." 

The  hand  on  Lum's  bridle  dropped,  and  the 
gray  leaped  forward ;  Lum's  farewell  words 
hurled  behind :  "  Ye  cayn't  ondo  hit ;  all  ye 
kin  do  ar'  ter  fight  me,  an'  ye  shell !  " 

"  Ef  I  mistaken  him,"  muttered  Whitsun, 
who  hardly  seemed  to  hear,  so  absorbed  was 
he  in  his  own  train  of  thought,  "  ef  —  how  cud 
hit  a  be'n  —  me  bein'  called  ?  " 

Boas  was  waiting  at  the  cabin.  He  thanked 
and  blessed  Lum,  but  the  poor  fellow's  heart 
was  too  sore  to  be  thus  eased.  He  must  go 
back  to  Polly  Ann,  who  despised  him.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  to  try  to  lift  himself  a 
little  in  his  wife's  opinion  by  telling  the  story 
of  the  afternoon ;  he  felt  too  sure  that  Polly- 
Ann  would  not  believe  in  any  real  intention 
of  his  to  fight  Harp,  and  would  think  that  he 
welcomed  any  excuse.  If  only  the  Case  boys 
had  fought,  if  somebody's  blood,  no  matter 
whose,  had  been  spilled  !  "  Gells  is  alius  a 
cravin'  fer  folks  ter  be  killin'  each  other," 
mused   Lum.     ^^  Polly  Ann  wud   feel  a  heap 


842  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

pearter  ef  I  Led  a  fust-rate  title  ter  a  ghost  er 
my  own.  But  now  I  never  '11  Lev  no  show, 
not  the  leas'  bit  on  earth  !  " 

Polly  Ann  received  him  with  great  kindness, 
saying  nothing  of  the  spoiled  dinner  or  the 
delayed  supper  and  twice-made  coffee.  After 
supper  she  herself  brought  him  the  violin. 
But  he  put  it  aside,  saying :  "  Tek  hit  'way, 
I  don'  feel  like  fiddlin' !  "  He  had  scarcely 
touched  his  supper.  "  Ye  feelin'  puny,  Lum  ?  " 
said  Polly  Ann  timidly.  He  only  shook  his 
head  and  went  out,  forgetting  his  hat.  Her 
kindness  jarred  on  his  sick  soul ;  this  morning 
he  had  yearned  for  it  because  this  morning  he 
had  a  conviction  that  she  would  not  despise 
him  long  or  grudge  him,  afterward,  a  last 
caress.  But  now  —  "I  'm  so  low  down  en 
her  min'  she  cayn't  holp  pityin'  me,"  thought 
Lum.  Degraded  in  his  own  eyes  and  in  hers, 
and  uncertain  how  long  before  Savannah's 
giddy  tongue  might  be  released  from  the  fear 
that  tied  it  and  make  his  humiliation  the 
latest  joke  for  the  store,  Lum's  whole  nature 
seemed  to  collapse.  He  shunned  the  Clover 
Bend  people ;  he  even  shunned  his  wife,  spend- 
ing days  in  the  woods  shooting,  or  picking  cot- 
ton, and  taking  a  lunch  into  the  field.  At 
night,  supper  over,  he  would  go  out  and  be 
gone  until  late.     Many  a  night  did  Polly  Ann 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.  343 

pretend  to  be  sleeping  when  Lum  stepped 
softly  across  the  floor.  He  never  had  been 
drinking;  and  he  did  not  cross  the  river,  for 
Polly  Ann,  always  watching  at  the  window, 
could  see  that  the  boats  were  not  moved.  One 
night  she  followed  him.  All  that  he  did  was 
to  wander  restlessly  among  the  hills.  She  saw 
him  make  wild  gestures ;  once  she  heard  a 
groan.  Then  she  crept  back  to  bed  and  cried, 
poor  woman,  whether  for  him  or  for  herself, 
who  knows  ? 

She  began  to  be  frightened.  She  saw  Harp 
at  a  distance,  and  once  he  crossed  the  river  and 
paid  a  long  call  on  Boas ;  so  that  she  did  not 
connect  any  possible  remorse  with  her  hus- 
band's gloom.  How  could  she  imagine  that  he 
was  ceaselessly  and  poignantly  regretting  his 
not  being  a  murderer  ? 

The  only  place  where  Lum  was  anything 
like  his  old  self  was  in  Boas's  cabin.  Boas  was 
dying,  but  very  peacefully.  The  visions  which 
had  tortured  his  life  away  were  gone.  He  had 
no  more  dread  of  them.  Thanks  to  Lum,  he 
told  his  wife.  He  told  her  nothing  else,  but 
that  was  enough  to  arouse  her  gratitude.  She 
would  not  pain  him  with  questions,  but  she 
thought  no  harm  of  questioning  Polly  Ann. 
"  D'ye  'low  Lum  done  seen  Grundy  an'  druv 
him  'way  ?  "  she  asked  in  tones  of  awe.     "  Law 


344  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

me,  Mis'  Shinaiilt,  but  he  mus'  hev  grit ! " 
Grit  ?  —  poor  Lum  !  But  Polly  Ann,  who  was 
superstitious,  did  have  a  vague  and  appalling 
theory  that  in  some  way  Boas  might  have  trans- 
ferred Grundy  to  Lum.  Yet,  were  she  right,  it 
was  not  natural  for  Lum  to  take  such  evident 
comfort  in  Boas's  society,  going  there  every  day, 
and  taking  his  violin,  although  he  never  lifted 
the  bow  at  home. 

Boas  had  little  to  say  ;  what  he  had  was  about 
the  time  when  his  lost  boys  were  children.  He 
would  lie  for  hours,  quite  patient,  quite  content, 
watching  his  wife  at  her  simple  tasks  or  hear- 
ing Lum  play.  He  often  smiled.  It  was  a  pa- 
thetic sight  to  see  how  this  man,  who  had  not 
known  peace  for  so  long,  seemed  actually  to 
revel  in  mere  immunity  from  dread.  "  'Pears 
like  I  cud  n't  git  enough  er  jes  restin',"  he  would 
say.  He  suffered  very  little  physically.  "  It 
is  n't  so  much  that  his  lungs  are  gone,"  the  doc- 
tor had  said ;  "  all  his  organs  seem  used  up. 
It 's  more  a  death  from  exhaustion  than  any- 
thing else." 

November  passed.  Early  in  December  Boas 
died.  Lum  saw  him  onlv  a  few  hours  before 
the  event.  He  had  never  alluded  to  the  past 
horror,  but  to-day  he  said  :  "  Lum,  I  be'n  bav- 
in' a  cur'is  dream.  'Beared  like  I  war  haulin' 
logs  alonger  Grundy  Wild,  like  we  useter.    An' 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         345 

we  uns  war  hevin'  sich  a  pleasan'  time.  Hit 
war  purty  weather,  an'  we  uns  did  n't  'pear  ter 
hev  no  bad  feelin's  'twixt  us,  an'  Grundy  he 
war  a  laffin'  an'  pokin'  fun,  an'  me,  I  war  laf- 
fin',  too,  kase  ye  know  them  tricks  er  his'n  an' 
quar  contraptions,  an'  nary  un  'membered  nuth- 
in'  er  thet  ar  bad  time.  I  war  a  laffin'  w'en  I 
waked  up.  Lum,  we  uns  war  right  good  frien's 
wunst,  an'  hits  quar  but  I  ar'  a  feelin'  them  ole 
frien'ly  feelin's  now  agin.  Hit 's  like  the  res' 
war  jes  a  bad  dream.  I  ain't  skeered  no  mo' 
er  meetin'  up  with  Grundy,  Lum." 

Not  long  afterward  he  fell  asleep,  and  he  may 
have  wakened  with  Grundy,  for  he  did  not 
waken  in  this  world.  There  was  a  great  gath- 
ering at  the  funeral.  To  this  day  the  widow 
talks  about  it  with  doleful  pride  ;  "  'T  war  the 
vurry  bigges'  an'  the  gran'es'  buryin'  the  Bend 
ever  seen.  A  hun'erd  an'  sixty-two,  big  an' 
little,  looked  at  the  co'pse.     I  ceounted." 

Whitsun  Harp  came  to  the  funeral.  It  so 
happened  that  when  Lum  first  saw  him  they 
were  both  standing  at  the  grave.  The  open 
grave  was  between  them.  Polly  Ann  saw 
Lum's  moody  countenance  brightened  by  a  fierce 
light.  Harp  did  not  seem  to  see  Lum  or  any 
one  ;  his  composed  and  melancholy  gaze  went 
past  their  heads  over  the  forlorn  little  field 
with  its  rail  fence  and  high  gray  grass  waving 


346  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

above  the  unmarked  mounds.  The  services 
ended,  the  people  slowly  walked  down  the  path 
which  their  own  footsteps  had  made  through 
the  grass.  Polly  Ann  kept  close  to  Lum.  He 
edged  himself  up  to  Whitsun.  They  spoke 
together  in  a  low  tone,  but  Polly  Ann  had  the 
ears  of  an  Indian  ;  she  caught  two  fragments 
of  Lum's  sentences :  ''  Nuthin'  now  ter  ben- 
der," and  ''  Down  en  th'  bottom,  by  the  little 
bayou." 

There  were  people  with  the  Shinaults  as  far 
as  the  ferry,  and  afterward  there  were  the 
widow  and  two  cousins  to  escort  home.  One  of 
the  cousins,  intent  on  having  a  comfortable  gos- 
sip about  the  dead  man  with  some  one  not  too 
near  him  for  free  discussion,  returned  with  Lum. 
So  she  gave  Polly  Ann  no  chance  to  see  her 
husband  alone,  and  was  still  rocking  and  talk- 
ing in  the  black  and  gilt  rocking-chair  when  he 
came  in  and  took  down  his  gun.  "  I  'm  goin' 
fer  a  shoot,  Polly  Ann,"  said  he.  He  had 
crossed  the  threshold,  but  he  came  back  and 
kissed  his  wife  on  both  cheeks,  before  the  cousin. 
The  cousin  giggled ;  but  Polly  Ann  remem- 
bered that  he  had  not  kissed  her  before  in  three 
Veeks.  I  fear  that  her  visitor  found  her  an  un- 
gracious hostess.  The  instant  she  was  free,  she 
ran  to  the  shore.  Lum's  boat  was  gone,  but 
Boas's  little  boat  had  been  left  near  the  ferry  ; 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         347 

in  this  she  rowed  over  to  Clover  Bend.  At 
first  she  hesitated  on  the  other  shore,  but  pres- 
ently she  ran  at  the  top  of  her  speed.  She  had 
heard  a  single  shot.  "  Thar  wud  er  be'n  two^'' 
her  white  lips  kept  muttering ;  "  thar  wuz  on'y 
one  !  " 

She  ran  past  the  mill,  past  the  pasture,  down 
into  the  swamp.  It  was  the  same  cypress 
brake  through  which  Lum  had  ridden  with 
Boas,  three  weeks  before ;  but  it  was  another 
scene  to-day.  One  of  the  wood  fires,  so  com- 
mon in  autumn,  had  shorn  the  ground  of  the 
green  cane  and  all  the  undergrowth  that  hides 
the  weirdugliness  of  the  cypress  roots.  Now, 
bared  of  every  tender  disguise  of  vine  or  moss, 
the  hideous  things,  in  their  grotesque  and  dis- 
torted semblance  of  human  form,  seemed  demon 
dwarfs  crouching  over  their  fires  ;  while  the  cy- 
press knees  bore  an  uncanny  resemblance  to 
the  toes  of  incompletely  buried  giants.  Out  of 
this  huddle  of  monstrous  shapes  rose  the  cy- 
press-trees, un marred  by  knot  or  branch  until 
high,  high  above  a  rider's  head,  some  slim  and 
erect  like  stately  young  maidens,  others  of  enor- 
mous girth,  brother  giants  to  those  that  the 
earth  refuse  to  cover.  Some  were  as  smooth- 
and  glossy  white  as  dead  bones.  The  fire  had 
eaten  out  their  life.  Charred  logs  were  tumbled 
over  the  ground,  and  the  cypress  boughs  were 


348  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

ashes  whence  rose  a  cloud  of  smoke  under  hurry- 
ing feet. 

Polly  Ann  ran  on  farther  and  farther  into 
the  ruined  forest.  She  could  see  the  shining  of 
water.  A  log  had  fallen  across  the  road.  No, 
O  God !  it  was  no  log,  it  was  a  man,  it  was 
Whitsun  Harp  lying  on  his  face,  shot  dead  from 
behind. 

Another  woman  might  have  screamed.  Polly 
Ann  only  knelt  down  beside  the  man  who  had 
loved  her  all  his  youth,  and  very  gently  turned 
his  face  to  the  sun. 

He  who  so  seldom  smiled  now  wore  a  pleas- 
ant, dreamy  smile  on  his  lips.  The  murderer 
had  taken  such  sure  aim  that  death  did  not 
even  interrupt  the  murdered  man's  thought. 

Then,  at  last,  Polly  Ann  understood  her  hus- 
band.    This  was  what  he  was  studying. 

Without  a  moan  or  cry  her  body  swayed  for- 
ward like  a  broken  tree  and  fell  beside  Harp's. 
But  she  did  not  lose  consciousness  ;  she  knew 
the  voice  that  called  her  name,  and  she  stag- 
gered to  her  feet.  Lum  was  standing  in  the 
road,  his  face  ashen  white  and  his  gun  shaking 
in  his  hands.  She  ran  to  him  with  a  great  sob 
and  threw  herself  against  his  breast. 

"  Run  !  run  !  "  she  gasped,'  "  they  '11  cotch 
ye  !     Tek  the  boat ;  the  river  's  bes' !  " 

"  Fer  w'y  must  I  run  ?  "  said  Lum.    Though 


o 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         349 

he  was  so  agitated,  so  excited,  lie  seemed  rather 
like  a  man  overcome  by  some  unexpected  sight 
of  horror  than  one  who  fears  for  himself, 

''  You  " —  began  Polly  Ann  ;  she  clutched  the 
barrel  of  his  gun.     It  was  cold  to  the  touch. 

"  Ye  hav'  n't  fired  hit  off  !  "  screamed  she. 

"Naw,"    said   Lum,    "  I  see  ye  weepin'  over 
Whitsun  Harp  ;  ye  'low  /killed  him  ?  " 

"  Ye  looked  so  —  skeered  !  " 

"  I  war  skeered  —  pow'ful  skeered.  Kase, 
Polly  Ann,  I  lef  home  'ith  my  min'  sot  on  kill- 
in'  thet  thar  dead  man,  but  I  did  n't  do  hit. 
Hark'  ter  me,  afore  him  lyin'  thet  away  ye  don' 
b'lieve  I  cud  lie.  Lemme  tell  ye  the  hull  truth." 
Then  he  told,  with  the  conciseness  of  strong 
emotion,  how  Boas  had  saved  him  in  the  first 
place,  and  how,  as  long  as  Boas  lived,  he  could 
not  renew  his  attempt.  "  But,  ter-day,"  said 
he,  "  I  war  free  agin.  I  cud  show  ye  I  war  a 
man  's  much  ez  Harp.  I  spoken  ter  him  at  the 
buryin'."  —  He  shuddered.  —  "I  'p'inted  this 
yere  place.  He  tole  me  ter  come  ter  the  store 
fust,  an'  then  ef  I  wanted  he  'd  come  yere.  I 
done  wen'  ter  the  store.  And  he  war  thar.  Afore 
'em  all,  he  stepped  up  an'  begged  my  pardin'. 
*  Mr.  Shinault  knows  w'at  fer,'  he  says,  an' 
then  he  thanked  me  fer  '  savin'  '  on  his  life  — 
he  putt  hit  like  thet  —  an'  tole  the  hull  story.  * 
'  An'  now,'  sezee,  '  I  don't  guess  ye  keer  fer  my 


350  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 

comp'ny  down  en  the  bottom.'  Then  he  holes 
out  his  han',  an'  I  taken  it,  an'  he  said,  '  Ye 
won'  keep  no  gredge  agin  me  no  mo',  will  ye, 
you  nor  yo'  wife  ? '  an'  I  said  '  Naw,'  an'  he 
went  away,  an'  I  never  seen  him  agin  tell  I  seen 
you  settin'  by  him,  an'  him  dead.  Polly  Ann, 
ye  do  b'lieve  me." 

Polly  Ann  was  sobbing,  but  she  nodded. 
"  Abe  Davis,  he  war  with  me,  but  he  went  on 
the  high  road,  an'  I  come  down  yere  fer  a  shoot 
so  I  'd  hev  some  squirrels  to  tote  home.  We 
heerd  the  shoot,  but  folks  is  alius  shootin'  in 
the  bottom.  We  mought  er  cotched  of  'em  ef 
we  'd  come  straight  down  :  I  don't  guess  they  '11 
ever  cotch  'em  now.  Thar  's  too  many  ter 
suspicion. " 

Lum  judged  rightly.  Among  the  dozen  men 
who  had  cause  to  hate  Whitsun,  Justice  (a 
somewhat  unwieldy  personage  in  the  bottom) 
never  could  find  enough  evidence  against  any 
one  to  take  action.  Whitsun's  murderer  was 
never  punished,  to  Clover  Bend's  knowing ;  he 
was  never  even  pursued. 

Lum  knelt  down  as  Polly  Ann  had  done  by 
the  dead  man's  side  ;  he  looked  up  at  his  wife 
with  love  and  pity  beyond  his  expression.  "  Yes, 
he's  ddne  gone  shore,  dearie,"  he  said  slowly; 
"  I  wisht  he  warn't.     He  war  a  better  man  nor 


me." 


WHITSUN  HARP,  REGULATOR.         351 

Polly  Ann  only  sobbed. 

"  Wild  ye —  wud  ye  like  ter  —  ter  say  good- 
by  ter  him  afore  I  holler  on  Tobe  ?  I'll  step 
over  yander  ter  look  fer  'im." 

Then  Polly  Ann  looked  up.  She  read  his 
thoughts. 

"  Lum,"  said  she,  "  come  yere  !  "     He  came. 

"  Ye  'low  thet  I  set  store  by  Whitsun,  too 
gre't  store,  mor'n  I  done  by  you  f  " 

*'  He  war  yo'  kin',  honey,  I  don'  meanter-ter 
trow  it  up  agin  ye  —  ye  'lowed  I  war  triflin'." 

"  Lum,  Lum,  don'  say  the  word,"  cried  she, 
"  donH !  I  don'  know  how  ter  tell  ye ;  but 
't  waz  you  alius,  alius,  even  w'en  ye  hed  n't  nary 
thought  fer  me  an'  wuz  waitin'  on  Savannah 
Lady.  I  fit  agin  hit,  I  done  my  bes'  ter  brung 
my  min'  ter  Whitsun,  fer  he  —  he  axed  me  an' 
he  war  so  good,  so  brave,  the  bes'  an'  faith- 
fulles' —  but  I  cud  n't  do  it,  kase  my  min'  war  so 
sot  on  you.  An'  then  we  uns  wuz  married,  an' 
ye  did  n't  set  no  gre't  store  by  me  fer  a  right 
smart.  An'  I  wuz  so  lonesome,  an'  paw  war 
gone,  an'  I  grieved.  An'  then  w'en  ye  sorter  — 
sorter  began  ter  hev  a  —  a  differ  en  yo'  feelin's 
I  war  frettin'  an'  takin'  on  bekase  ye  war  n't 
like  Whitsun,  an'  kase  ye  wud  let  'im  dare  ye 
an'  prommus  ye  lickin's  an'  not  tek  it  up.  Oh, 
Lum,  I  war  a  fool,  but 't  war  alius  you.  Whitsun 
knows  it  war  alius  you." 


352  KNITTERS  IN  THE  SUN. 


»  >j 


"  Yes,  honey,  yes,  my  darlin',  I  onnerstan', 
said  Lum  softly,  gathering  her  into  his  arms 
with  a  full  heart.  In  that  supreme  moment 
they  both  forgot  all  the  world  but  themselves. 

But  Whitsun,  lying  in  the  sunlight  at  their 
feet,  was  smiling  still. 


o 


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A  Chance  Acquaintance.     Illustrated.     i2mo    .     ,     .      1.50 


8  Works  of  Fie 1 1071  Published  by 

The  Same.     "Little  Classic  "  style.     i8mo  ....    $1.25 

A  Foregone  Conclusion.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Lady  of  the  Aroostook.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Undiscovered  Country.     i2mo 1.50 

Suburban  Sketches.     i2mo 1.50 

A  Day's  Pleasure,  etc.     321110 75 

Thomas  Hughes. 

Tom    Brown's    School-Days    at    Rugby.     Illustrated 

Edition.     i6mo i.co 

Tom  Brown  at  Oxford.     i6mo 1.25 

Henry  James,  Jr. 

A  Passionate  Pilgrim,  and  Other  Tales.     121110       .     .  2.00 

Roderick  Hudson.     i2mo 2.00 

The  American.     i2mo 2.00 

Watch  and  Ward.     "  Little  Classic "  style.     i8mo     .  1.25 

The  Europeans.     i2mo 1.50 

Confidence.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Portrait  of  a  Lady.     i2mo 2.00 

Anna  Jameson. 

Studies  and  Stories.     New  Edition.     i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 
Diary  of  an  Ennuyee.    New  Edition.    i6mo,  gilt  top  .      1.25 

Douglas  Jerrold. 

Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures.    Illustrated.     i6mo    .     i.oo 

Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

Deephaven.     i8mo 1-25 

Old  Friends  and  New.     iSmo 1.25 

Country  By- Ways.     i8mo 1.25 

The  Mate  of  the  Daylight.     i8mo 1.25 

A  Country  Doctor.     i6mo -     •  1.25 

A  Marsh  Island.     i6mo 1.25 

A  White  Heron,  and  Other  Stories.     i8mo  ....  1.25 

Rossiter  Johnson. 

"  Little  Classics."  Each  in  one  volume.     i8mo. 
I,  Exile.  X.  Childhood. 

II.  Intellect.  XL  Heroism. 

III.  Tragedv.  XII.  Fortune. 

IV.  Life.      '  XIII.  Narrative  Poems. 
V.  Laughter.  XIV.  Lyrical  Poems. 

VI.  Love.  XV.  Minor  Poems. 

VII.  Romance.  XVI.  Nature. 

VIII.  Mysterv.  '     XVII.  Humanity. 
IX.  Comedy.  XVIII.  Authors. 


Hotighto?i,  Mifflin  a?id  Company.  9 

Each  volume $1.00 

The  set 18.00 

Joseph  Kirkland. 

Zury  :  the  Meanest  Man  in  Spring  County.     T6mo      .  1.50 

Charles  and  Mary  Lamb. 

Tales  from  Shakespeare.     i8mo I.oo 

The  Same.     Illustrated.     i6mo i.oo 

The  Same.    Handy-Volume  Edition.    32mo   ....  i.oo 

Harriet  and  Sophia  Lee. 

Canterbury  Tales.    In  three  volumes.     The  set,  i6mo  3.75 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

Hyperion.     A  Romance.     i6mo 1.50 

Popular  Edition.     i6mo •  -40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  i6mo 15 

Outre-Mer.     i6mo       1.50 

Popular  Edition.     i6mo 40 

Popular  Edition.     Paper  covers,  i6mo 15 

Kavanagh.     i6mo 1.50 

Hyperion,  Outre-Mer  and  Kavanagh,     2  vols,  crown 

8vo 3.00 

Flora  Haines  Longhead. 

The  Man  who  was  Guilty.     i6mo 1.25 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 

In  War  Time.     i6mo 1.25 

Roland  Blake.    i6mo 1.25 

Mrs.  M.  O.  W.  Oliphant  and  T.  B.  Aldrich. 

The  Second  Son. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 

The  Gates  Ajar.     i6mo   .     • 1.50 

Beyond  the  Gates.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Gates  Between.     i6mo 1.25 

Men,  Women,  and  Ghosts.     i6mo 1.50 

Hedged  In.     i6mo 1.50 

The  Silent  Partner.     i6mo 1.50 

The  Story  of  Avis.     i6mo 1.50 

Sealed  Orders,  and  Other  Stories.     i6mo 1.50 

Friends  :  A  Duet.     i6mo .1-25 

Doctor  Zay.     i6mo 1.25 

An  Old  Maid's  Paradise,  and  Burglars  in  Paradise. 

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Madonna  of  the  Tubs.     Illustrated.     i2mo  ....  1.50 

The  Gates  Between.     i6mo 1.25 

Jack  the  Fisherman.     Illustrated.     Square  i2mo  .     .  .50 


10  Works  of  Fiction  PiiblisJicd  by 

Marian  C.  L.  Reeves  and  Emily  Read. 

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Riverside  Pocket  Series. 

1.  Deephaven.     By  Sarah  Orne  Jewett. 

2.  Exile.     ("  Little  Classics.") 

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4.  A  Gentleman  of  Leisure.     By  Edgar  Fawcett. 

5.  Snow-Image,  and  other  Twice-Told  Tales.     By 

N.  Hawthorne. 

6.  Watch  and  Ward.     By  Henry  James. 

7.  In  the  Wilderness.     By  C.  D.  Warner. 

8.  Study  of  Hawthorne.     By  G.  P.  Lathrop. 

9.  Detmold.     By  W.  H.  Bishop. 

10.  Story  of  a  Mine.     By  Bret  Harte. 

Each  volume,  i6mo,  cloth 50 

Josiah  Royce. 

The  Feud  of  Oakfield  Creek.     i6mo 1.25 

Joseph  Xavier  Boniface  Saintine. 

Picciola.     Illustrated.    i6mo i.oo 

Jacques  Henri  Bernardin  de  Saint-Pierre. 

Paul  and  Virginia.     Illustrated.     i6mo i.OO 

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The  Waverley  Novels.  Illustrated  Library  Edition. 
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Waverley.  The  Antiquary. 

Guy  Mannering.  Rob  Roy. 

Old  Mortality.  St.  Ronan's  Well. 

Black  Dwarf,  and  Legend  Redgauntlet. 

of  Montrose.  The   Betrothed,  and  The 

Heart  of  Mid-Lothian.  Highland  Widow. 

Bride  of  Lammermoor.  The  Talisman,  and  Other 

Ivanhoe.  Tales. 

The  Monastery.  Woodstock. 

The  Abbot.  The  Fair  Maid  of  Perth. 

Kenilworth.  Anne  of  Geierstein. 

The  Pirate.  Count  Robert  of  Paris. 

The  Fortunes  of  Nigel.  The  Surgeon's  Daughter, 

Peveril  of  the  Peak.  and  Castle  Dangerous. 
Quentin  Durward. 

Each  volume i.oo 

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Hotightoity  Mifflin  and  Company.  ii 

Tales  of  a  Grandfather.     Illustrated  Library  Edition. 

With  six  steel  plates.     In  three  volumes,  i2mo  .     .  $4.50 
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Horace  E.  Scudder. 

The  Dwellers  in  Five-Sisters'  Court.     i6mo  ....  1.25 

Stories  and  Romances.     i6mo 1.25 

The  Children's  Book.    Edited  by  Mr.  Scudder.    Small 

4to 2.50 

Mark  Sibley  Severance. 

Hammersmith  :  His  Harvard  Days.     i2mo   ....     1.50 

J.  E.  Smith. 

Oakridge  :  An  Old-Time  Story  of  Maine.     i2mo    .     .     2.00 

Mary  A.  Sprague. 

An  Earnest  Trifler.     i6mo 1.25 

William  W.  Story. 

Fiammetta.     i6mo 1.25 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

Agnes  of  Sorrento.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island.     i2mo 1.50 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.     Ilhcstrated Edition.     i2mo  .     .  2.00 

The  Minister's  Wooing.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Mayflower,  and  Other  Sketches.     i2mo       .     .     .  1.50 

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Oldtown  Folks.     i2mo 1.50 

Sam  Lawson's  Fireside  Stories.     i2mo 1.50 

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We  and  Our  Neighbors.     Illustrated.     i2mo      .     .     .  1.50 

Poganuc  People.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

The  above  eleven  volumes,  in  box 16.00 

Uncle  Tom's  Cabin.      Holiday  Edition.     With  Intro- 
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British  Museum.     Over  100  Illustrations.     i2mo     .  3.00 

The  Same.     Popular  Edition.     i2mo I.oo 

Octave  Thanet. 

Knitters  in  the  Sun.     i6mo. 

Gen.  Lew  Wallace. 

The  Fair  God  ;  or,  The  Last  of  the  'Tzins.     i2mo  .     1.50 

Henry  Watterson. 

Oddities  in  Southern  Life.     Illustrated.     i6mo  .     .     .     1.50 

Richard  Grant  White. 

The  Fate  of  Mansfield  Humphreys,  with  the  Episode 

of  Mr.  Washington  Adams  in  England.     i6mo      .     1.25 


12  Works  of  Fiction. 

Adeline  D.  T.  Whitney. 

Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood.     Illustrated.     i2mo   .     .     .  $1.50 

Hitherto:  A  Story  of  Yesterdays.     i2mo      ....  1.50 

Patience  Strong's  Outings.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Gayworthys.     i2mo 1.50 

Leslie  Goldthwaite.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

We  Girls :  A  Home  Story.     Illustrated.     i2mo     .     .  1.50 

Real  Folks.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

The  Other  Girls.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

Sights  and  Insights.     2  vols.  i2mo 3.00 

Odd,  or  Even  ?     i2mo 1.50 

Boys  at  Chequasset.     Illustrated.     i2mo 1.50 

Bonnyborough.     i2mo 1.50 

Homespun  Yarns.     Short  Stories.     i2mo      ....  1.50 

Justin  Winsor. 

Was  Shakespeare  Shapleigh  ?  A  Correspondence  in 
Two  Entanglements.  Edited  by  Justin  Winsor. 
Parchment-paper,  i6mo 75 

Lillie  Chace  Wyman. 

Poverty  Grass.     i6mo 1.25 


RARE  BOOK 
COLLECTION 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

AT 

CHAPEL  HILL 

Wilmer 
475 


^m 


